


Amongst The Stars

by helianskies



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: And Gilbert is just a big fucking tease, And there's a twist!, Antonio is a musician, Antonio kinda makes him want other stuff too tho, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Escapism, Fluff and Angst, Human, Lovino is a journalist, Lovino just wants to not get fired tbh, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2019-08-02 01:29:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 33,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16295705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helianskies/pseuds/helianskies
Summary: This is Lovino's last chance to stay with the magazine that is giving him his money and reputation. His latest interview is scheduled to be with a rising name in modern music - Toro - but when he meets the man behind the name, things suddenly become much more complicated for the Italian writer, and his investment in the musician's story only grows from there.





	1. First Impressions, Worst Discretion

This was his final shot. If he didn’t get this right and prove that he could fly up to those heights, Lovino’s future as a journalist was at risk.

He had graduated three years ago from a decent college, degree in hand, and had thought that it would be easy to secure and decent job. And it had been at first. Experience working with the university’s magazine had massively boosted his employability, and he found work within six months of leaving school. See, easy! Since then, two more jobs had come and gone, and here he was with his fourth position and his entire reputation on the line. Lovino was currently writing for a music production magazine, but the editor felt that his Italian employee was not going the distance in order to get the best stories, the hot exclusive and most importantly, new readers.

From outside the venue, he could hear the racket of the opening act of that evening’s entertainment. If the musician he had come to see and request an interview with that night played like that and fucked people’s ears with similar rubbish, he would quite happily hand his staff card to his boss the next morning. Why had he picked music again? Why hadn’t he stuck with the culinary columns? God fucking—

“You the journalist?” Lovino came out of his inner thoughts with a startle, now faced with a pale face (pale everything; skin, hair, but not the eyes. The eyes were blood moons) and a questioning look, marked with a frown of impatience.

“Yeah, that’s me,” he replied after an attempt at composing himself, holding up the press card that hung around his neck from a lanyard. “Here to see—”

“I know.”

He blinked but accepted the statement. It was obvious when he thought about it; the man in front of him seemed to be the same guy he spoke to over the phone to arrange this meeting, so of course he would know who Lovino was and why he was there. _Idiot_. That meant the albino (was that an okay thing to say?) was the artist’s talent manager, the man with the money and right to turn Lovino away right there, at the door, if he gave off a bad impression.

And surprisingly, that wasn’t a hard thing for him to do.

“Come on in,” the manager said nevertheless, “you’ve got ten minutes with him before he goes on stage, and then you’ve got whatever time you need once he’s back. Sound good?”

It was an effort at first to keep up with the albino and his longer legs and longer strides, but after a little extra running, Lovino stood close behind him. “That’s perfect, thank you,” he responded. He hadn’t quite been expecting that kind of generosity for an interview like this—one with a rising name in music production—but it was a blessing he couldn’t waste, not even on poor manners.

The taller man gave a hum. “Vargas, right?”

“Mm, Lovino Vargas.”

“Call me Gilbert,” the manager said, before continuing without giving Lovino a chance to respond. “Tell me—why music?”

The Italian left a pause in the air. “What do you mean, in what sense?”

“Why are you writing about music?” Gilbert expanded as the pair took a right turn and trailed down a crowded corridor (crowded with props and used plastic cups, old decoration and the remnants of alcohol). “Of all the things to write about—sports, cooking, heck, even gardening—why was music your choice?”

_Who is the one getting interviewed here again? Jesus Christ._

“I didn’t start out with music, actually,” Lovino offered as appeasement for the curious man. “My first column was about culture in cooking, as you mention it, and the next two columns focused on whatever I was told to write about—” To his dismay, “—by the editor. Music... Music was just a change, Like, uh... An experiment.”

“Do you like music?”

“What kind of question is _that_?” Lovino asked flatly.

He almost reprimanded himself, but Gilbert gave an amused snort, which made him wonder if perhaps he didn’t need to be so tight and uncomfortable in this place. His boss had always reminded him that he had to be polite and smile when talking to anyone in the industry that was considered important (whether artist, manager or technician) else he would lose the scoop. Maybe his boss needed to get out more.

Gilbert’s amusement became only a grin, and he peered back at the Italian that was following him. “Okay, smarty-pants, so what _do_ you listen to?”

“Eh... I’m not all that big on the contemporary stuff,” he answered solemnly. “Anyone who dares play pop music in the office usually gets a very passive-aggressive email about their Swift addiction.”

“Interesting... I wonder, have you actually listened to the kind of music that’s going to be played tonight, then? Like, ever?”

Good question. “I had to sample some before I came out here, but it’s not something I would listen to in my spare time, if you get what I mean. Happy?”

“Man, I can’t wait to listen to this interview—”

“What do you mean, listen?”

“—it’s going to be fucking crazy.”

Before Lovino could reiterate his question and demand to know why Gilbert would be sitting in on the interview—something rather unorthodox as far as his experiences were concerned—the albino halted them outside a door that didn’t stand out from any other in the long hallway, and he knocked a simple melody on the wood.

Was this it? No sense of glamour, no extravagance—was this guy’s dressing room seriously bang in the middle of some random corridor in the building, further from the stage than even the last million doors that they had passed? Lovino’s stomach performed a quick acrobatics act and his head in the meantime wondered if this interview would be worth it at all. He should have picked a different rising artist. Whoever was behind this door couldn’t be that big of a deal. He had fucked up. The editor would be pissed come Monday morning. His job, his reputation, his livelihood—the line was coming to an abrupt end.

And then the door opened.

A young man (he was in his mid-twenties, Lovino had been able to learn that much from Google) held it so, flashing a big, warm smile at Gilbert before he looked to the Italian with those really, _really_ soft green eyes of welcoming—all in pristine quiet. This was not who he was expecting to meet, a guy with unkempt chocolate hair that screamed ‘child’, ordinary clothes on that cried ‘basic’ and a smile that silenced it all.

“Toni, meet Lovino. He’s the journalist here to speak to you,” Gilbert introduced.

Lovino waited for a hello of sorts—the word itself or a handshake—but all that came was the smile, a nod, and then a retreat into the dressing room. Gilbert followed this ‘Toni’ inside, and Lovino followed Gilbert.

The room was a mess. A creative, abstract, quirky mess that was a little frustrating to Lovino’s preference of minimalism and clean colours. It was a fairly big space considering how small it had appeared from outside in the hallway, well-lit with big hanging bulbs and iridescent strip lighting that marked out each index of the cuboid. To the left side was a wall covered in what Lovino knew to be a mural of the night sky, complete with constellations and distant galaxies in every hue of purple, pink and blue imaginable. To the right was a mirror wall garnished only in the centre by a wooden stool and matching shelf (a dressing table, Gilbert had called it when placing down a bottle of water on the feature).

And in the centre of the chaotic mess of plants and bright colours was a more ordinary display of a white-washed coffee table and two three-seater sofas, black and fabric (because fuck leather, that crap was uncomfortable to sit on, Gilbert additionally said).

Toni—or Antonio, as it turned out his full name was (something Lovino had not been able to learn on the internet due to the culture of enigma that Antonio had created around his stage persona, apparently)—directed both of his guests to the sofas before disappearing through another door that hadn’t even been noticed, hidden amongst the stars.

“This room is like a fucking T.A.R.D.I.S,” Lovino remarked as he took a seat.

Gilbert snorted once more. “Antonio’s idea. This room technically expands another two rooms that way,” he said, gesturing to the mural and the direction they had come from. “He likes the idea of secrecy and ‘there’s more than meets the eye’.” He locked eyes with Lovino for a moment, mischief in his features. “Creative types, am I right?”

The painted door opened and shut once more as Antonio emerged with nothing new and obvious—no extra item of clothing, no drink, nothing!—on his person, before taking a seat on the sofa opposite his manager and interviewer. And still, not a word left him. Was this part of the secrecy and enigma that Lovino had been told about? Because it was starting to become irritating.

“Okay, so,” Gilbert said, clearing out the silence in the room with a suddenly much louder voice, “here’s how this’ll work. Ten minutes now, then more after the performance. How long you out there for, Toni?”

That was something Gilbert should have known already, right? He was the manager after all...

But what baffled Lovino even more was when Antonio held up both hands, his right one with only four digits raised, the second with all five in the air. What the fuck was happening right now?

“Neat,” Gilbert responded before turning to an oblivious Lovino, “that gives you forty-five minutes to mope about in here and prep for the full interview. ‘Nough time?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“Good good!” the albino beamed, Antonio giving a similar satisfied smile, before he leant forward to sit in a different, more serious-looking position. “Now for some quick ground rules and extra information. Questions will be answered at the end, children. Both of you got it?”

Lovino watched as Antonio nodded and took the expectant green gaze now pointed at him as a sign that perhaps he should say yes, too. Or just nod, like he had, given that he still wasn’t talking for some bizarre reason.

“First and foremost, I am going to be present during both of the sessions to act as a mediator—nothing more. I will not speak for Antonio, I will only intervene if I feel a question is inappropriate or is going to be misconstrued.” He waited for some form of confirmation that that first point of interest was fine with Lovino, who had grown to feel a little more awkward in the sights of both Gilbert and Antonio. “Secondly, there is no time constraint on the post-performance interview. It will end when Antonio deems it time.”

Another silent nod, another ‘that’s fine with me’.

“Third, then: content that will go into the magazine will be selected between the three of us for privacy reasons. What you learn here is not all for the outside world to know, and there’s no telling where conversations will turn, which kinda draws me onto my final point.” Gilbert paused and looked to Antonio. “Is there anything else you want me to add before I tell him?”

_Tell me what? Sweet Lord above, give me fucking strength with these two._

Antonio shook his head— _Motherfucker_ —which prompted Gilbert to finish of his little spiel. “We are telling you this in complete confidence, understand? This is something that Antonio considers unmentionable in the public eye for now, whilst he is still putting his name out there, and action will be taken if this information is leaked by yourself before he has decided it is time. _Do you understand?_ ”

Well, things had just gotten intense, judging from the stern look that he was being given from Gilbert right now. Lovino dared a glance at Antonio whose smile had fallen to a much fainter version, still present but superficial—it encouraged Lovino to accept this spoken contract, reassuring him that it would be fine, whilst reminding him that the consequences of breaking said contract would make the Italian regret joining the journalism profession, at the very least.

Lovino looked back to Gilbert. “I understand.” Privacy was privacy at the end of the day, and whatever damning secret he was about to be told, it was something that Lovino knew better than to share without consent. He wasn’t an asshole—

“Antonio can’t actually speak.”

_Oh, you have to be fucking kidding me!_


	2. Notes

Lovino had no idea how to respond to that statement. _Antonio can’t speak._ Yeah, that’s great, but an interview requires communication and Lovino didn’t know sign language! If he had been told sooner that this was the situation he was being dealt he definitely would have let someone more experience handle this, fuck!

“He’s mute,” Gilbert elaborated, as if Lovino hadn’t already guessed so, “which is why confidentiality is so important right now. No one is allowed to know. Capisci?”

“Capi—” Lovino paused and gave the albino a flat glare. What, did the bastard that showing off a little Italian would make him any more compliant? “Capisco, thanks.”

“Glad to hear it!”

Then came the clicking of fingers, and both looked to Antonio. The brunette signed something to Gilbert that went straight over Lovino’s head, like a swelling grey cloud, and the German (an easy guess at this point) gained a questioning look.

“Why are you asking?”

Another signed message followed the rolling of eyes, and Antonio finished with a domineering look. It was not often when Lovino got to see this kind of relationship between a manager and their artist that seemed to border on a close friendship between pubescent teens, but it was certainly insightful. Gilbert gave an ‘oh’.

“Are you allergic to cats?” he asked him.

“Cats?” Lovino repeated, the question a little odd in the present situation as far as he was aware.

“ _Cats._ You know,” Gilbert said, “the fluffy things with the pointy ears and the ferocious claws, lazy, proud—”

“I know what a cat is, I just want to know _why_ that’s what I’m being asked.” It was Lovino’s turn to roll his eyes, a thing he could not stop himself from doing these days. “No, I’m not allergic.”

And with that, the other brunette stood up from his seat and vanished once more through the extra-terrestrial threshold, taking his silence with him yet leaving it also in his wake. _Fucking mute. My luck._

“Our cat had surgery recently, and mother Toni hates leaving him unattended,” Gilbert eventually explained. “I don’t think that much fuss is needed, but it’s just Toni. The guy cares too much.”

Lovino gave an absent nod and waited in thought for Antonio and the cat to come back from the other side of the universe. Our cat, Gilbert had said. As in, the cat belonged to both Gilbert and Antonio equally. It was theirs. They shared it. Fuck, had Lovino mistaken a relationship for a simple friendship? The plot kept thickening and he didn’t think it would be much longer before he was drowning in an overload of information and secrets!

Once the artist came back, cradling a bandaged cat in his arms (it looked like it was wearing a diaper for whatever reason), Lovino built up the courage as he sat down to ask him a question that was extremely risky for him to put forward. He didn’t want to come across as rude, he was merely curious. He observed as the cat—which was covered in masses of pale, sandy fluff, as well as love and attention—was gently placed into a lap and then stroked, making itself comfortable on its owner (one of its owners?).

“So, how come you’re mute?”

The stroking halted.

“That’s a really dangerous start, Vargas—”

“The interview hasn’t started,” Lovino upheld, making his own mark in the room of four. “I’m not recording anything yet—I prefer interviews to be in a solid block, so these few minutes now are for simple conversation. If you don’t want to answer, that’s fine,” he addressed Antonio, “but surely you understand why I’m asking.”

Gilbert began to speak; “I don’t think that’s an appropriate question, interview or not. He—”

But he was stopped in his tracks when a raised hand asked him to be quiet (that much Lovino could understand) and then the other hand joined the first, sending Gilbert a rapid message through signals. The albino appeared a little unsure of what had been communicated, asking if Antonio was sure, before receiving a nod that made him seem uneasy about the unspoken words.

He leaned over the arm of the sofa and retrieved what Lovino recognised as a laptop sleeve. From it, Gilbert took out a Macbook, slim and light, and opened the lid to reveal it was already on, waiting to be used. The object was passed to Antonio who traded it for the cat in his lap, and the sounds of speedy typing began. So this was how they were going to communicate, huh? Green eyes were glued to the screen, rolling along the sentences as each one was typed out in a clean rhythm, until the moving fingers ceased and the laptop was placed on the coffee table for Lovino to see.

It had taken only about two minutes to write out his response, but for Lovino, it seemed as though a life story had been written in the small frame:

_‘I was born able to speak, able to communicate freely with the people around me. It was a happy childhood, and an ordinary one shared with my parents and older brother. But when I turned ten, the world seemed to turn upside down. At first, we thought it was a simple cold and sore throat situation; we didn’t put any pressures on the local doctors to see me because honey and lemon was supposed to fix it. A month later, I was still coughing, and then the bleeding started. It took another week before we could get an appointment to see a doctor, and another two weeks before any kind of diagnosis came through._

_And I was diagnosed with laryngeal cancer, just like that. The tumour was at Stage 3, big and getting bigger, and I went in for surgery to remove it two days later. I woke up after the operation, drowsy and feeling half-dead, but I heard the doctor mention something about complications during the surgery. It was only the next day when my parents told me that I would not be able to speak again. And then the world collapsed.’_

It was like poetry. Fuck, Lovino hadn’t signed on for this emotional rollercoaster. This guy, sat on the sofa opposite him, had gone through such a trauma as a child and even now seemed to be somewhat uneasy about having just spilled the beans regarding his entire situation. Lovino felt guilty. He felt evil. There had been no real necessity to ask other than for his own selfish needs, and karma would make sure he regretted it. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

“You could have just told him you had cancer, idiot. I don’t think he wanted an essay,” Gilbert commented from the side-lines. Lovino couldn’t bring himself to look away from the laptop. “I think you’ve traumatised the poor guy.”

Antonio signed back a response to his manager (partner? boyfriend? Lovino decided that that question could be left in the deepest recesses of his mind) and let a lop-sided smile grace his lips.

“You are honestly way too trusting at times.”

A cushion flew across from one sofa to the other, a cat gave an unimpressed mewl, and Antonio took back the laptop. Typing began once more, this time a little slower, and a shorter message was returned to Lovino with an apologetic look that the Italian had not been expecting to see.

_My life is complicated, but it is what it is. I’m glad you asked. Acceptance is the only way to move forward. I just wished people had asked me more when I was younger, so it didn’t take so long to move on with my life. But no one can know any of this—not until I’m ready. Not until the music is ready._

Oh for fuck sake, this idiot was only making it all worse! How was Lovino meant to reply? Forget him being mute, the fact that he now knew why he was in such a state and he understood Antonio’s desire for secrecy around his entire life—it only made Lovino feel like he was sinking further into a pit of guilt, pity and remorse! Damn Antonio and the dumb cancer! And what made it worse was that that man had once been able to speak freely. And now he couldn’t, and that was theft; whether done by God or biology, it was fucking theft!

“Okay, let’s call it time for now,” Gilbert decided on everyone’s behalf. The morose atmosphere in the room was suffocating, Lovino could agree, but he still felt bad to just move on as if that entire exchange had not just happened. “Toni, get a move on to backstage so that you’re ready to go—you’ve got ten minutes before you start!”

Panic struck the brunette’s face and he practically leapt up from his seat, grabbing a jacket from a coat stand (had that always been there?) before readying to leave. He turned and gave a smile and wave to the other two in the room, and then just like that, he was gone. He was a mess, Lovino concluded. Antonio was a mess in every which way imaginable, and he bet he knew it, too. _Dork_.

“Now then . . .”

Moroseness was replaced by darkness for a split second as only Gilbert, Lovino and the cat remained. In that second, the image of Gilbert being a Bond villain, stroking the fur in his possession whilst giving some sort of evil rhetoric toyed at the forefront of Lovino’s imagination, before dispersing entirely. He watched idly as Gilbert moved the cat onto one of the cushions in between himself and the journalist, before taking the laptop, slipping it away, and rising from his seat.

“You’re free to either stay in here with Francis or come backstage to listen, with both of us,” the albino finished. It was certainly less threatening than Lovino had imagined it was going to be, but he had to wonder, who was Francis? The _cat_?

“I’ll come backstage,” he answered. “Might as well listen to the music I’m meant to be asking about, right?”

“Smart kid,” came the response, and Gilbert picked up the cat, leading the way back out into the corridor.

It was an effort to once more scramble out past the forgotten items that littered the long wall and Lovino wondered if Antonio had tripped over anything in his race to the stage, yet more comical imagery flying through his thinking space. After their walk in the jungle, a right turn, a squeeze through a room packed with boxes and a game of hopscotch to avoid masses of cables ensued. Backstage was a large space, bustling with people and noise that was being drowned out by music filling the intermission of the show.

The venue was large; through curtains and gaps in black plasterboard, Lovino could see a huge crowd of several hundred people, all coming to the concert of an artist whose name was relatively new on the music scene, yet one that had evidently reached out an enamoured so many people. It was quite the sight. Antonio must’ve been proud. Speaking of whom, Gilbert suddenly waved, holding onto the poor cat with only one hand (rather precarious, in Lovino’s opinion), to Antonio himself on the other side of the backstage area.

Following Gilbert, Lovino ended up on that same side quickly, to find that the musician was being attended to by a fast-working makeup artist, whatever _she_ was needed for, before the woman vanished leaving mumbled words in the air behind her. Antonio looked as though he was laughing quietly on the inside, eyes following after her as he shook his head gently.

“Toni..?”

Antonio turned to see Gilbert, giving a new, fresh smile on his face. He even greeted the cat with a loving scratch behind the ears, before his attention moved to small, quiet Lovino. A new message was signed to him, which Gilbert translated for Lovino’s sake.

“Have you listened to this kind of music before?” the German iterated, with pretty much all of the emotion and excitement visible only on Antonio’s own features. Lovino decided to play along, arms folded across his chest.

“Not really,” he said in a lax manner. “It’s all just noise to me.”

A head-shake came, followed then by that same bemused look that had followed the makeup artist and even more sign language (Lovino felt a strange urge to start learning it, should he, you know, ever bump into a deaf or mute person on the streets who needed his help). At this response, even Gilbert had found amusement, snickering and nodding as he understood whatever had been said to him, saying ‘you’re right there!’. Lovino cleared his throat after a few seconds of being kept in the dark, and a sharp look demanded a translation.

“He said that means you’re listening to it,” Gilbert explained, “rather than feeling it.”

“Which means what, exactly?”

From speakers above and those that called out across the crowd, an electronic voice began to announce the end of the intermission and the arrival of the person that everyone came to see, a rising star in an ever-expanding universe, a new constellation that sought to guide the way to those lost in the dark: _Toro_. Cheers and screams of joy erupted from the crowd in the arena, and before Lovino could turn to the musician himself and wish him luck (or whatever the fuck you were supposed to say—he didn’t know) Antonio had already vanished.

The lights went out across the venue. Smoke machines rolled a gentle fog across the stage as small white lights illuminated the swelling clouds. From the ground, music seemed to rise and bubble like a growing earthquake, sending the distant beat up the feet, legs and chest of everyone around, and then it grew louder.

Lovino wasn’t sure what to feel, what to think, but his entire attention was lost to the throbbing of his bones and the rise of the decks from the centre stage, shrouded in a fierce red light. And right in the middle of it all stood the silhouette of the artist himself, headphones on, the music coming to life at his fingertips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So of course, Antonio's backstory had to be a little sad because characterisation, but he seems okay now! Music is his therapy. Precious bean :3
> 
> And before anyone questions why Antonio just upped and gave that entire monologue about his past, call it a kind of test. More on that will come later down the line!
> 
> Also, Francis is a cat. More on that later too! :'3


	3. Find The Keys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lovino is basically just a mess.

It was loud, thumping beats for the next forty-five minutes. The small arena had transformed into a massive electronic-dance club, red and amber lights flying all over the crowd and their glowsticks, who were now moving like an ocean, together as one body, all to the same unique rhythms. Each song blended into the next, whether a remix or an original, and the next track always seemed to imbue more ecstasy and euphoria into the people in the pit.

Lovino hated to admit it, but he was impressed. It took quite some effort to not tap his feet to the beat of each tune that came along or bop his head slowly. Was this what Antonio had meant by being able to feel the music rather than listen to it? To feel each individual note rise through your body and let it woo you, take control, and liberate you to its will?

Fuck that man and his music philosophy! He refused to let himself be in awe of those words and the creator behind them and the songs. The _noise_. All he had come for was an interview, and yet he had so far received a threatening contract of secrecy, a life story of injustice and now, an insatiable desire to enjoy the music and forget himself. Un-fucking-believable! And what made it worse was that at some point, Gilbert had become aware of Lovino’s attempts to restrain himself and had tried to entice him into letting loose several times!

So, all in all, the past hour had been torture.

When _Toro_ (Toto, Lovino amended in scorn) had finished and the arena had once more faded to black along with the music, the electronic voice had returned to complete the narrative that the past forty-five minutes had apparently been giving (Lovino had missed it entirely, it seemed) as the crowded roared on, wanting more and more that they were not going to get. Antonio soon appeared from nowhere, which Lovino knew was actually underneath them by this point, and quickly announced (signed) that he was going to change out of the neon-paint-stained top and that they should see him back in his room in a few minutes.

And that was that, he was gone, and Lovino was left questioning many, many things, including whose idea it was to even make neon paint guns a thing for concerts like this. Like seriously, how many people had paint all over their faces and in their eyes now because of this? The small label may have owned the building, but people still had rights, dammit!

“Sooo, what did you think?” Gilbert asked the journalist, giving him a nudge with his elbow as he continued to cradle the cat (‘our cat’) like a baby. “Pretty cool, right? Converted your tastes yet?”

Lovino was not going to admit defeat. “I wouldn’t say so. They enjoyed it,” he said, jabbing a thumb out towards the still cheering crowd, “but it’s not the kind of music I’d listen to at home, that’s for sure.”

“He produces more than just club mixes, you know.”

“Well, that’s an interview for another time, then, isn’t it?”

Gilbert gave a smirk. “Another interview? Are you that interested in our little musician?”

By ‘our’, Lovino assumed he meant himself and the cat, who it turned out was definitely called Francis for whatever reason, and he decided there was no appropriate comment to make. Yes, he was interested. Yes, he wanted to know more: more about these other songs he produced but apparently didn’t play at concerts like the one on that night; more about his life and how he came to be the man he was today; more about how on earth he overcame losing his fucking voice and still, after fifteen years, seemed to struggle under the surface of the charade that was his persona.

Fuck, Antonio had gotten into his head and was messing him up, scrambling his mind, frying his brain... Lovino needed to get this interview done and go home to bed. _Now._

“Come on then, Vargas—”

“It’s _Lovino_ , thank you.”

“—let’s get this interview of yours done, ja?”

And away they went!

Francis was placed onto his designated cushion on the right-hand sofa when the trio arrived back in the Room (Lovino was still torn between calling it a dressing room or a madman’s room) and Gilbert claimed his bottle of water from the shelf, drinking from it as if desperately dehydrated. They were crazy. They we all crazy, the journalist concluded, even the cat with the bandaged ass.

Since the interview was due to begin any time in the next two minutes, if Lovino was lucky enough, _God, please,_ he reached into his pocket to grab his Dictaphone, but then he remembered: you can’t record an interview with someone who can’t speak. With a quiet huff, he set it out on the table so that he could record his questions, at the very least, and decided that he would simply have Antonio keep all his responses typed up. That way, he could easily email it to himself ready to be printed at the start of the coming week.

Antonio came into the room, fresh top on (black suited him, oddly enough; it complimented his ‘mystery’ existence and contrasted with the mish-mash colours of the space they were in) and he plonked himself down on the free sofa. Seconds later, Gilbert joined him, and it seemed as though, at last, they were ready to begin.

“Okay,” Lovino breathed as he settled into his profession again, “are there any questions before we begin?”

The others looked to each other, expectant, but it seemed there were no queries to be had for now. That was a relief—no more wasting precious time!

“I’m recording this purely so that I can keep a record of the questions asked,” the journalist pressed on. “In return, all responses to questions that you are happy to answer, I would like kept on one document so that I can send them to myself for the article. Happy with that?”

Again, no qualms rose and both parties nodded. _Thank you, God, for giving me this little moment of blissful peace._ With a quiet beep, the Dictaphone began recording, and Lovino sat back in his seat, notepad and pen in hand.

“So, you’ve been on the scene for a few months now, all under the same name and profile. How did you come to the decision about what your stage name should be?”

And from there, the answers came rolling in and the questions were served out just as fast. Another condition regarding the interview that came out after the first question was asked, courtesy of Gilbert, was that Antonio’s real name should not be given out either—it was just another part of protecting who he was and keeping up that mysterious profile. Lovino was happy to oblige.

For the next twenty minutes, he learnt about Antonio’s music inspirations and how he learnt to produce the songs being released to the public. His favourite pastime that didn’t revolve around his work was cooking old family recipes, taking long walks outside, and he even dabbled in painting (‘Just like the mural on the wall there,’ Gilbert had added, pointing to the universe). He loved Tuesday mornings, the smell of the ocean, the colours of autumn, cats (who would have guessed it?) and the list went on and on and on!

It was times like this when Lovino could grow uncomfortable with his job. It felt invasive to pry into someone’s personal life, and especially after having to listen to Antonio’s story, it felt simply odd to hear all of these ordinary things he liked to do or wanted to see before his time was up. A trip to Paris, to go backpacking in Asia, to see Machu Picchu with his own eyes—in those twenty minutes, Lovino saw Antonio as a force to be reckoned with, a force that could not and would not stop for anything or anyone. It was remarkable. It was inspiring. And to him, it was incredible that Antonio was keeping a lid on the thing that was motivating him to do all of these things. Incredibly _stupid_ , in fact.

After another few minutes of talking and typing, there was somehow four full pages of responses ready to be sent on to Lovino, and no doubt so much more left to uncover about the interviewee. To even think it was highly unusual but… Lovino still wanted more. This article was not enough to satisfy him. There was more than met the eye to Antonio—something the man would be proud of—and it pissed him off so much!

A beep signalled the end of the recording, and Gilbert let out a content sigh as everyone was able to relax. “Well that was pretty insightful,” he remarked. Antonio signed him a message accompanied by a funny, quizzical look. “Hey, not even I know _everything_ about you. I mean, really, _lemon drizzle cake?_ ”

He got a shrug in reply.

“Half of those questions were ones put forward to me by the editor, by the way,” Lovino added as an afterthought. He wouldn’t normally ask what someone’s favourite type of cake was, but it was apparently the random thing that the readers wanted to know. “They were a bit odd, but I hope not too weird…?”

He received the shaking of a head and a kind smile (how the fuck did he do it?) from Antonio who sent him a message via Gilbert: “I like quirky things, if you couldn’t already tell. The ordinary gets boring after a while.”

“Even so,” Lovino said, “I’d love to know who could really be that interested about ‘things you do on a Sunday morning’. What are they expecting to hear?”

The way that Antonio pressed his hands together, mimicking prayer, made Lovino imagine a halo crowning his darker locks and vibrant wings extending outwards (smacking Gilbert in the face, hopefully), the songs of a heavenly choir pouring down from on High. He could pass as an angel, with that soft, warm smile he possessed and those kind eyes.

 _Fuck, listen to yourself, Lovino! Bastard, you’re a journalist_ — _act fucking professional!_

“Was there anything else you wanted to know, to ask?” Gilbert asked the Italian, helping draw him out from his stupor, the latter just catching the end of more hand signals. “Something off the record.”

_Quick, something that completely contradicts the images of angels, you fucktard!_

“Uh, have you got any tattoos?” he posed slowly, letting the words find themselves as they came to his tongue. “Or, if you could have any one for free, what would it be?”

The smile styed firmly pressed on those lips, and Antonio nodded, presumably to the first question. He returned to the laptop, adding a new answer to the bottom of the already open document:

_‘I have a small one on the back of my neck, a little keep-sake I got when I was twenty and finally sorting myself out. I’ll show you after you read this. As for having any more, I’m not sure to be honest. I like the idea of having something small but significant on my wrist, but 1) that really hurts and 2) I think I’d rather save it for something really, really important.’_

Well, wasn’t that sweet? The guy was sentimental amongst everything else that had been revealed about him that evening. Lovino gave a comment after reading through the paragraph—a simple, that’s a nice idea—and Antonio thanked him with a nod and the sign, before inviting him to stand so he could see this tattoo on his neck. All three of them stood, in the end, and Antonio turned his back on them and moved his jacket so that the ink could be seen.

It was the black image of a keyhole.

Something violently tugged at Lovino’s heart as soon as his eyes lay on it, the meaning instantly coming to him, and he wondered for a moment if he was going to be sick from the sheer amount of emotional trauma he was bearing witness to.

A keyhole? Seriously? Could the guy honestly have not picked something like a word, or a cutesy little floral design? _A fucking keyhole?_

It hurt. It hurt way too much.

“I think that wraps it up for tonight, then,” Gilbert announced, saving Lovino from having to say anything about the ink and from the night as a whole, as the mute musician turned back around and silently agreed. “I’ll send the document onto your email when I get home and there’s some decent internet connection, yeah?”

“Yeah, thanks,” was all that managed to leave Lovino’s mouth.

After that, it felt like a painfully numb walk with his stuff back to outside the venue. He took little notice of the people he passed after leaving that room, or of the bits and bots scattered about the long hallway, or of the rain that poured down from the sky. Nothing had ever shaken him so much in his life, he had no idea what to say or what to think at all, his hand hailing down a passing taxi on the main road. He was in shock.

Lovino opened the door into the silver car and was about to pass on the address to get him home to the safety of his shared apartment, but someone calling after him made him stop. Gilbert. He gave a displeased huff and stuck his head back out into the rain through the open window, too desperate to see the backs of the albino, the mute, and the venue.

“Vargas, I need to pass this onto you quickly,” Gilbert said through bated breath and torrential rain. He pulled out a piece of card from a pocket on the inside of his coat and handed it over—a business card. “Antonio has a proposition for you. Get in touch, we think you might like it.”

“Okay, but—”

“Have a good night!” the albino called over him, however, and he gave the roof of the car a good pat, the driver pulling away from the building with an even more confused Lovino inside.

He looked at the card in his hand. He took a deep breath.

“Belforth Apartments, please. Midtown, SA2.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The keyhole tattoo represents Antonio's voice being 'locked' for anyone who didn't quite catch it. It's at the base of his neck, and the lil' story behind will be elaborated upon one day, I'm sure.
> 
> If I remember.
> 
> Ha.
> 
> This chapter felt short compared to the previous but fun fact: it wasn't. Mad.
> 
> Someone save me from university.


	4. Brotherly Advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feliciano gives Lovino a kick up the bum.

At the breakfast table, Lovino was looking down at the business card in his hands whilst trying to get through a plate of slightly overdone toast. Not even the cappuccino was helping him focus. Ever since he had crawled inside the apartment last night and dragged himself to bed, he had struggled to concentrate—even on sleeping.

And he totally, completely, one-hundred percent blamed Antonio.

“Buongiorno, fratello! How are you today? How did last night go?” a voice asked him from somewhere over his shoulder, back in the open kitchen space.

Lovino put the card down next to his plate and picked up his lukewarm mug. “Morning, Feli. Glad to see your as lively as ever,” he remarked before taking a quick sip and addressing his brother’s queries. “I’m just tired. It was a late night—insightful, good—but pretty damn exhausting.” Emotionally.

“Aw, well, at least you got the interview you needed done, right?” his younger brother persisted.

It was in _him_ , at that moment, that he could picture Antonio. If the guy could speak, would his voice have the same optimism ringing through every syllable? A voice of silk and honey, like the one that Feliciano possessed? Would it be deeper, would it be smoother, would it speak the same words that his hands produced with such care and deliberation, would it still talk to Lovino with such attention and patience?

See? _Those_ were the thoughts that had been plaguing him all night, and Lovino couldn’t bear it! He had been there for two hours, and for some reason, it felt as though he had sold his soul to the Devil and that Lucifer was whispering in his ear the things that Lovino did not want to think about.

Fucking, stupid, bastard Antonio!

“Yeah, I did,” Lovino answered. “I need to— I’m typing it all up today and then sending it to my boss so it can be edited or whatever.”

This would be tricky now, as well: not accidentally letting slip that this new artist was not exactly your average person. Because if Feliciano found out, there was no hope in Hell that Antonio’s secret will stay a secret for very long.

“That’s good!” Feliciano beamed. “Finally on track again, huh?”

Lovino dared another glance at the business card, the number printed on the front. “Yup…”

“Well, I have to go to work now—” which consisted of baking and selling the goods he baked, Lovino lamented, “—but I’ll see you later on and we have a nice meal and a chat about it all, sì?”

“Sì, now get a move on before you’re late again!” the elder urged, using it as an excuse to get Feliciano out of the flat as quickly as possible so he could decide what he was going to do.

No more words passed between the two as keys rattled when they were picked up and the door shut with a decent thud, leaving the stagnant world of the Vargas apartment in silence. For the millionth time that morning, Lovino took the slip of card in his hand and stared at the number. It was Gilbert’s (because of course, why the heck would Antonio have a phone when he couldn’t speak— Fuck!) according to the name above it, and an email address also sat with the other information.

A glance at the clock revealed that it wasn’t quite nine o’clock yet. Lovino doubted that Gilbert would be awake to answer, but even so, he found himself reaching out for his mobile phone and dialling the number slowly into the keypad.

It rang for a little while, each pulsing tone increasing his heart rate until he decided he was being an idiot—he didn’t need to involve himself any further in Antonio’s and Gilbert’s business—but his thumb was not quick enough. His call was answered. His prayers were not.

“Hello?”

Lovino swallowed his pride and held the phone back to his ear. “Hi, uh… It’s Lovino Vargas. You wanted me to call—”

“Vargas! Yes, hallo again!” Gilbert said a bit too loudly for this time of day. Maybe he was a morning person after all, despite Lovino’s presumptions. “I’m glad you called, we were kinda unsure whether or not you’d bother after last night. How are you?”

_Why is he even asking me that?_

“I’m fine, just— Look—” Lovino paused and gave a quick huff to fix himself. “I called on a whim, it was a heavily-debated action. So tell me why you wanted me to call you back given that our bit of business is done, Gilbert.”

“Antonio’s proposition!”

The journalist waited for some elaboration on that, but sadly, it seemed after a few seconds that one was not coming.

“Which is _what_ , exactly?” he asked lowly.

“Weeeell, more or less, it’s a contract to do some work,” the German began to explain, and Lovino was glad that he was sitting down for this. “After you left, he reminded me of this idea he had had: a story to be released, demonstrating and revealing to the public eye that the life of artists of any calibre is not easy, nor straightforward. Like a documentary of sorts, you know?”

He dreaded to think where he was being dragged into this, but, “Go on,” he said all the same.

“The idea is that the film acts as a kind of PSA that deals with the challenges faced on a day-to-day basis and issues that occur in the long-run, as well as the good things too,” Gilbert continued to babble on. “But most importantly, Antonio wanted to use this material as his big reveal.”

Lovino almost choked in his cappuccino, having to move the phone away from his face as he spluttered on the bitter coffee slipping down his throat. It took a few seconds to clear himself, but he could hear that Gilbert was still talking away on the line despite not having any active listener. He moved the phone back quicker than he had moved it away.

“Gil, Gilb— _Gilbert!”_ The albino ceased in his ramblings, silenced by a harsh, raised voice. “Thank you, Jesus fucking Christ… Okay…” He took a breath to gather himself. “What do you mean he wants to use it as a reveal? How?”

“What do mean, ‘how’? The project is literally about the struggles of being an artist, and quite clearly, Antonio’s biggest struggle is his inability to speak, Vargas—”

“ _Lovino._ ”

“—so I’ll let you work it out, yeah? _Dummkopf_.”

“ _Stronzo_ ,” Lovino cursed back. “So, just like that, he wants to let the world know his secret?”

“Not… Not exactly ‘just like that’, no…”

“What? What do you mean?”

Gilbert cleared his throat on the other end of the line, producing a nasty feedback in the phone. “The film is going to be made over the course of a full year.”

Nope, they had definitely all lost their marbles at some point: Antonio, Gilbert, and their fucking cat. It took more effort than Lovino would usually be willing to give for him to not hang up the phone there and then, telling them all to do one, content with the single interview he had given. Yet still, something nagged at the back of his mind. What would his role be in all of this? He was a journalist—a writer. How was he supposed to help make a film of this kind when it was nothing more than a year-long photographic diary?

He closed his eyes and told himself to relax. _Don’t overthink anything, Lovino, just breathe and satisfy your intrigue because you’ll regret it later._ He didn’t have to accept any offer. He didn’t have to agree to any terms or conditions. He would simply ask, say no thank you, and then continue leading his life with his secure job and cosy living.

Fuck Antonio.

“And what, do tell, would I be doing during this one-year period exactly?” he posed with what little patience remained.

“What you do best, Vargas—interviewing,” Gilbert responded. “A lot happens over the course of a year, and we always knew that someone would have to push answers and the truth out of Antonio if he ever wanted to seriously tell the world he’s mute.”

“So why me?”

“Because he has never fucking admitted that he loves lemon drizzle cake to anyone in existence, other than you,” the albino upheld, “and if that doesn’t tell you much then I don’t know what will.”

Again with the cake? Lord, seriously, Gilbert needed to get over that. Whatever his relationship with Antonio was, it surely had to be built on more than pudding preferences.

But Lovino still took it all in, absorbing the information like a needy sponge. Was Gilbert really insinuating that he had some kind of gift—a truth serum in his gaze or some whacky nonsense—that would make Antonio reveal all if filming went ahead? It was too absurd to be true. He would hardly say he was gifted when it came to interviewing (let us remember that the cake question came from the editor, not Lovino!) and generally talking to people, so what was the real reason that this demonic duo had locked their sights on Lovino?

“What’s your current rate of pay, by the way?”

Lovino paused and blinked, unsure if he had heard correctly. “Sorry, what?”

“Like, what’s your salary?”

So his ears were still working, then. “I don’t know,” he confessed, “it must be something low if I’m still living in this shared flat, so… Twenty, twenty-one thousand?”

“Fuck.”

“Excuse you?”

“Sorry, Vargas,” Gilbert said gingerly. “I just expected you to be on a bit more than that given the experience you have and everything.”

“I’ve only been on the field for three years, _Beilschmidt_.”

“But even still, that’s pretty pathetic.”

“Thanks for reminding me,” Lovino said flatly, his patience leaving him faster than his breaths. “Your point here?”

“We’re looking at providing just over four-thousand each calendar month.”

Forget choking on cappuccino, Lovino nearly dropped his entire mug on the floor. That figure was well over double what he was earning with his current job, and it was almost so very tempting, but there was still one thing that reminded him that saying no was his goal here: the job was for a year only. After that, what could he do? He would have to go back to ordinary journalism and feel the hard fall from the bigger figures back down to average wages. A grimace marred his features at the very thought of it.

So that was that.

“I can’t.”

“What do mean—”

“It was nice of you to think of me or whatever, but I can’t say yes,” Lovino interrupted. “I don’t think I can bring myself to accept your offer, so you can tell Antonio to look elsewhere. Sorry.”

And he hung up without letting another word leave Gilbert’s mouth. His heart was pounding in his chest and his thoughts began to race and whir about his mind. Was that the right decision? Was that lazy? Was that selfish? Wouldn’t that money help support both you and your brother? And what would Feliciano say about this? What would he have done in your position?

_Fuck, fuck, fuck!_

A text came through from the number he had dialled: _Think on it and get back to us when you’re sure you’re sure._ More ‘fuck’s escaped his mouth and Lovino couldn’t think of anything else to do besides ask Feliciano if he was just being stupid, or whether he was right to turn down the opportunity. The only problem was that he had to now wait seven hours for Feliciano to return, box of ‘unsellable’ delicacies in hand, with his counsel at the ready. Until then, all Lovino could do was get the interview properly formatted on his laptop and sent across to the magazine’s editor.

Would he have to worry about an editor if he worked on the project? His work would be his own, right?

Damnit, he was getting muddled again. He shook his head, reminding himself that he had work to do, and he disappeared into the make-shift office with his phone and laptop for the next few hours, only leaving for lunch and toilet breaks.

He had to say, it was a relief to hear the front door open and close on time at—he checked the clock on the wall—4:17pm. Lovino could hear Feliciano’s footsteps heading straight towards the kitchen, joined by the promise of a new experimental pasta dish, and he wasted no time in hurrying out of the office space to greet the other Vargas with a rapid, desperate interjection amid his brother’s words:

“I need your advice.”

Feliciano paused as he was placing down his box of sweet goodies onto the kitchen side and he looked to Lovino with an enamoured, happy look. “What with, fratello?” he asked. He probably assumed it was some non-existent romance crisis, but to Lovino, this was life or death. “I’m all ears, as they say!”

“It’s about work…”

“Mhm, what about it? Looking for another change already?”

“I—” _Well, I guess that’s close enough._ “I was offered a year’s contract this morning which I turned down, but now… I… I don’t…”

“You’re not sure if it was a good idea?” Feliciano finished for him.

After receiving a sheepish nod, the younger brother sat with his older counterpart at the kitchen table and asked Lovino to give him every single detail. And he did. He brought up being approached following the interview the night before, what the contract was for, who he would be working with, and the pay he was meant to be receiving for the work, all before explaining why he said no. In all honestly, he expected some kind of sympathy or understanding from his brother. What he got instead made him wince.

“Lovino Vargas, are you fucking kidding me right now?”

“Language, Feli!”

“Why would you turn that down, eh?” the youngest demanded nonetheless. “So what if it’s only a year? Work like that could lead to anything, I don’t know why you feel so tied to journalism like this!”

Lovino gave a groan. “It’s my degree, Feli, it’s what I specialised in—!”

“I don’t care; this could be an adventure for you, a chance to— To broaden your horizons and find out if this really is something you want to do for the rest of your life,” Feliciano pressed. Lovino could hear their mother’s voice resonating in his words. “What are you afraid of?”

It was a question he couldn’t answer—not over dinner, nor over the pastries that followed. He couldn’t find the words to explain how he felt even up to the point where it was time for bed and he had sent the article on to his boss. It could be an adventure, he told himself. It could be a disaster, too, he added. But wasn’t that the idea of an adventure? To explore, try new things, and let the mishaps and mistakes happen?

His mind flew back to Antonio and his story, the cancer, the keyhole. The smile. That bastard… He deserved a chance to show the world the other side of the industry, the truth behind the faces on the magazine covers, and deep down, Lovino knew he wanted to be there and help him accomplish that. He had to. He felt like he owed it to the idiot.

And so he found himself at 2am, sending a text to Gilbert’s phone, telling him he had changed his mind and wanted to meet him to discuss the contract further.

Gilbert replied three minutes later: _Tomorrow, 10am, Lily’s Café. We’ll see you there._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, I know how to drag this out horribly. I'm sorry.
> 
> All hail Reading Week which will hence be known as Writing Week. Trust me, I'm ashamed of myself too.


	5. Deal or No Deal?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A contract is formed; or alternatively, the author is just dragging this story out as much as possible because she can :'0

Lovino had never been to this spot before, but as soon as he stepped foot inside the cosy, quaint café, he knew it was a good place with good coffee. He was a little early, arriving fifteen minutes before the arranged time, so he ordered a cappuccino and took a seat in at a window table so that he was visible from the narrow, cobbled street outside.

He had slept for only three hours in the end, noticeable in the half-gone bags under his eyes. Mornings were not his favourite time of the day, he had to be honest. With so much flying about his head after texting Gilbert the night before, it wasn’t all that surprising that it had taken a while to drift off; Feliciano’s words of (harsh) encouragement pushed aside returning doubts about taking the contract, but all the while, there was still a dark cloud that felt like it was fogging his sense and sensibility.

The bell over the door gave a charming _ding!_ and Lovino peered over to see a familiar head of white mess making its way to the till. What was missing, however, was the accompanying chocolate tendrils of a certain mute musician. Where was Antonio?

“Hey, nice to see I’m the only one who functions before midday,” a voice remarked, pulling Lovino’s gaze from the window (when had he started to look outside?) and to Gilbert’s easy smile. “How you feeling?”

The Italian surrendered a sigh. “Shit.”

“That it?”

“It’s a good summary, if you ask me.”

Gilbert snorted (was he secretly a pig?). “Bet your school assignments were ace.”

“At least I _went_ to school.”

The bell gave another delicate chime, and lo and behold, the brunette had appeared to save the day! Antonio came straight over to the table, a sheepish, apologetic look on his face, and he greeted them both with a smile and a quick wave.

“All good?” Gilbert asked him, which was received with a brisk nod. “Cool. How long we got?” Three fingers were raised into the air. “That gives us plenty of time to discuss this then—perfect!”

With an absurd and unbelievable amount of energy, Gilbert threw himself down onto one of the seats opposite Lovino, cold drink in hand, and Antonio took a much calmer seat next to him. It was at that moment that Lovino was reminded that, if he ended up accepting this ridiculous offer, then he would be lumped with these two idiots for the next year. He wasn’t sure if his sanity would hold out.

“Okay, so we all know why we are here, yes?”

Even Antonio seemed to question why Gilbert felt the need to ask such a rhetorical thing; of course they fucking knew, it was all Lovino had been thinking and dreaming (‘nightmaring’?) about for the past eight hours!

“Please just get on with it before I walk out,” he said in the end, limiting the natural aggression of his tongue.

“Right, right, _sooo_ ,” the albino proceeded, “this contract is obviously quite a big deal to all of us sat here, and I think it would be a good idea to just go over it once more and clear up any concerns for all parties. Sound good?”

Both brunettes gave a nod, one much more tired than the other.

“The main thing about this contract is that its consists of, on _your_ part,” Gilbert said to Lovino directly, “ensuring the fluency of the documentary-film, a healthy dose of interviewing across the year period, and clear publicity of the final project.”

The Italian gave a minute frown. “So I’m a marketing specialist as well as a director _and_ journalist now, huh?”

Antonio knocked twice on the table, notifying them both that he had input, and he turned to Gilbert in order to give it. It took a short moment, the mute seemingly stumbling over what words he needed to convey with a small frustration in his eyes, but eventually, Lovino was allowed to know what he had said:

“What is important here is that—" Gilbert kept an eye on his companion, expectant of nods to confirm he was getting this right. “—you consider how big a role you want in what we are going to produce. If you only want to ask the questions, then so be it, but we think you might find some other things to do along the way.”

“And what about pay?” Lovino questioned. “How would that then work?”

“Well, we—”

The response was stopped when Antonio tapped Gilbert’s arm to once again put across his own thoughts. This was a circus act by this point—a show Lovino couldn’t recall buying a ticket for.

“It depends on what responsibilities you decide to take on,” the albino eventually explained. “We want to support you financially as best we can, but how much you earn is mostly down to you and whether you just want to act as the crew’s in-house journalist or not.”

“So if I accepted the original offer?”

The duo mused over it with a second-long shared look. “You’d see up to $4500 each month.”

“And if I decided not to take on the additional roles?”

“It would be between $3500 and $3800 a month.”

That was quite a big gap, Lovino could see that very clearly. If he wanted to make the most of the opportunity and truly exploit the financial incentives being offered to him, then he would need to do more than his normal job required. But to do so much—and without any real experience? It was a risk that he couldn’t quite believe the label was willing to take. And he _really_ hated being a disappointment to people. He didn’t need any more of that in his life, thank you very much!

During this inner monologue, it appeared Lovino had missed yet more frantic hand movements and emotive glances between the manager and artist opposite him; Antonio had gained a relatively sourer expression for some reason, and Gilbert seemed to be struggling to say no to whatever was being suggested.

“Ahem?” Lovino sounded, looking to both of them in a mix of hopelessness and despair.

Gilbert pretended not to take notice and addressed Antonio with a finalising “You sure?” before a slow, serious nod sealed their unspoken oath. He turned now to Lovino. “Looks like the contract will also be flexible.” He sounded less than happy at the notion. “If at any point you feel you have too much work, you can drop a responsibility; likewise, you can request additional responsibilities if you feel it would use up your time effectively.”

“Just like that?” he responded. No terms and conditions, rules and regulations, small print? He could tell that Gilbert was less comfortable with a flexible contract than Antonio was, but surely that was better—there was no room for errors due to stress that way, right? What was the problem?

“Just like that.”

Yet something about it still seemed off to Lovino. The offer was too good to be true—too good for someone such as himself—and it was far too easy. Opportunities like this, they weren’t supposed to fall from the sky and land in front of you in a ribbon-sealed box. This was real life! And yet, there it was. An ideal job right before his eyes, and an exclusive offer. What would Feliciano do, what would he ask, Lovino asked himself. And then: _Feliciano…_

“Question,” the Italian announced, securing the attention of both parties. “What are the label’s plans for the next year in terms of tours and gigs? Ones that involve him—” He nodded to Antonio, “—specifically.”

Gilbert took a moment to himself to think and, no doubt, pull up a schedule in his mind. “For the first two to three months, gigs at the venue and studio recordings are all we have in mind,” he said slowly. “But we _are_ in the process of organising a team-up with another small label that wants to work with us for a short while on this project—if it goes ahead.”

“With anyone in particular?”

“Nothing’s confirmed yet.”

“But it involves—what—a tour or something?”

“A small one, but yeah, in the second half of the year we will likely be moving around more.”

Lovino nodded. “And if everything goes to shit and _this_ guy doesn’t get his name out like planned?” he posed.

“Then the contract will be terminated when business goes too far south.” Gilbert quirked a brow, bored of interrogation. “You’ll get paid for the period you’ve worked, and then we go our own ways. Good enough for you, Vargas?”

It was a grand proposal, alluring and sweet. Touring was something that worried him if he had to accompany the crew away from the city, purely because that meant leaving the flat in Feliciano’s care and that seemed like a bad idea—it definitely had nothing to do with his brother being the only family in the state that he knew. Not at all. He would deny so even in a court of justice!

But even so, the money he would earn… It would support him and his brother for quite some time, equating more than their currents salaries put together! Lovino felt a sense of freedom tickling at his taste buds—freedom from work, freedom from his editor, freedom from being bossed around in an office six days a week, freedom that he had never truly felt in his lifetime. He was being granted something so important, so significant for himself, and something told him that it would be foolish to turn it down now.

For the next two hours or so, the trio worked on the contract and edited small clauses wherever necessary; through this, Lovino was given free-reign over his working hours and his own room in the label’s central venue amongst other small privileges. Three more coffees later, he could be honest and say he was happy. Relieved. And extremely alert, so much so that when he came back into his flat, he nearly knocked Feliciano to the floor when his reflexes screamed ‘intruder!’ in both ears.

“—Jesus Christ, fratello!” Lovino cried upon registering that his fist was an inch away from his brother’s skull rather than a thief’s. “Don’t fucking scare me like that!”

“Sorry!” Feliciano squeaked.

The poor kid had no doubt seen Lovino’s memo about heading out to meet with Gilbert and was just over-excited about hearing what had happened at the café. What else should he have expected? This was Feliciano he was talking about, and that kid would use anything as an excuse to pounce on someone and hug them.

Lovino only shook his head and moved on towards the kitchen, placing down a plastic wallet containing papers (the official contract would be given to him in person within the next seven days) and information about both the label and the project. His younger sibling followed him eagerly before descending upon the freshly-boiled kettle.

“Coffee?” he offered.

“No thanks,” Lovino replied, four hot drinks already slushing around inside of him.

“How did it go, then?” Feliciano asked as he poured the water into his cup, the bitter scent of instant coffee granules filling the space; it had Lovino trapped telling himself to wait on going to the bathroom for the minute, but the silence was concerning to Feli. “You _did_ go and see this Gilbert, right?”

Lovino blinked himself back into the present. “Of course,” he said, “I’m not a fool.”

“You were yesterday!”

“Shut up.”

“Did you come to some kind of agreement in the end or not?” Feliciano persisted ignorantly, his voice growing louder and somehow, more childlike (pubescent?)  “Ooh, please tell me you did, fratello!”

Eyes were rolled and plastic wallets were quickly waved in the air, and Lovino said, “You bet we did.”

Feliciano practically screamed.

With inhuman speed, he dashed around the kitchen counter and launched himself at his brother, constricting him in a tight, loving, proud hug, and he made no obvious attempt to let go. Lovino could have sworn he saw his life flash before his eyes.

“Well done, Lovi!” the younger beamed. “I can’t believe you actually went for it!”

Lovino gave a laugh from within the crushing grip. “Yeah, well, I have you to blame for that,” he replied. “Nothing like peer pressure from your own flesh and blood, right?”

“You’ll thank me later!” the other remarked.

The death-grip was released after a few more seconds and it took a fair amount of effort for Lovino to remain stood up straight as he caught his breath and composed himself once more. He would thank Feliciano for giving him this push one day, he didn’t doubt it that much, but what he would not be thanking his brother for was the spinal damage that would impede him during his later years. Imagine, a cripple at fifty because of Feliciano’s hugs! No one would have suspected that a guy with such gentle features and a kind face could mangle you!

Was Antonio like that too, he wondered. Not so much a boa constrictor in disguise, but… Was he perhaps someone with an unexpected side to his character, just like Feliciano's strength? It was hard to forget the first time he had set his eyes on that smile and those eyes doing all the speaking— And God-fucking-dammit, he had done it again! Antonio had invaded his thoughts without having been invited! Lovino was going to have to work out a way to rid himself of the picture...

“Does this mean you’ll be out and about a lot?”

Lovino’s attention reattached itself to his brother. “U-Uh—” _Fucking Antonio!_ “I mean, nothing is set in stone yet, but there’s a high chance that there’ll be a tour after a few months, which means travelling.”

Momentary nausea came to him. He would be trapped with Gilbert and Antonio for an unspecified amount of time in God-knew-where, far from home and the one person he associated it with. Several times, Lovino’s mind had told him it was a bad idea again—that to confine himself to working with those two people more than anyone else would drive him mad, but at the same time…

“That’ll be good for you!”

“What— What do you mean?”

“Travelling!” Feliciano elaborated. “You almost never leave the city, fratello, and I _personally_ think that going on a tour would be the best way for you to experience the… The world that exists beyond the local supermarket, no?”

The fucking cheek of it! Honestly, Feliciano could be a manipulative little shit when he wanted to be! Hm, maybe some time away would be a good idea after all, Lovino contemplated; he could either choose to be lumped with Feliciano for twelve months or with the Demonic Duo, and at this point, he wasn’t so sure he could tell which was worse!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feliciano: the brother everyone wished they had but may regret asking for in the end. Lovino loves him really...
> 
> And hey, good job, Toni, making sure Gilbert plays nice with Lovino's contract, winkwinknudgenudge aHEm.
> 
> No Francis this time, though. The cat will return, and with . v e n g e a n c e.  
> (Can you tell he's my favourite character so far? I'm actually DYING-)


	6. Spiacente...?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lovino moves into his new office, and his brother is there to help!
> 
> But perhaps it wasn't the best idea to bring him along.
> 
> Oops...?

The time had come to move into his new workspace. It had been almost two weeks since he had met with Gilbert and Antonio, and now Lovino was removing his things from his office with the music magazine and loading them into the car outside. His boss had received his notice that same afternoon he had come home from the café, and though he had seemed a bit disgruntled by the loss of a journalist, Lovino had already heard his space had been filled. Talk about feeling wanted…

Feliciano was there giving him help with his last few bits (namely a plant he had given his brother earlier that year, insisting that he would get fresh air one way or another; it had been subsequently named Alby, because, you know, _albero._ Feliciano thought he was clever) and a little support as he waved goodbye to it all.

Not that Lovino needed support. Saying goodbye was much easier than he had expected it to be. Even as they both got into the car, Feliciano in the driver’s seat, watching the offices disappear into the horizon in the side mirror gave him a good feeling inside: he was free.

Their route took them from one side of the city to the other in a straight line, gliding through traffic with ease and speed, before they turned into a suburb in which the label’s venue was the nocturnal heart. Feliciano made a point of reading out the names of every café and restaurant that they passed and Lovino did his best to drown him out to the sound of music. _Buon Pomodoro_ , _Tai Pan_ , _The Blue Orchid_ —it still seemed to call over the chords and vocals.

What was the other type of music that Antonio played, he wondered, since it was a better distraction for himself. Could he do more than mash sounds together to form the songs that caused a crowd to form a stormy sea, a mass tsunami? He tried to picture him sat at a piano or singing with a voice that wasn’t his own. It was unusual. Too different to the Antonio he had seen that night on stage. Let him stick to the beats for now.

After the fifteen-minute drive, both Italians disembarked and stood in the air of the venue’s shadow.

“Does it feel real?” Feliciano asked the other brother.

“Why wouldn’t it?” Lovino responded. “It’s just another job. Another office.”

But of course, it felt far, _far_ from real; this was not the sort of thing he would ever have thought he would be doing, yet there he was, grabbing the first box from the boot of the car and hauling to the side entrance. Feliciano followed close behind, Alby in hand, and his brother knocked loudly on the door.

“Are they expecting us right now?” the younger said.

“Gilbert is in everyday from nine until late,” Lovino responded, “and I told him in advance, so he’d _better_ be expecting us.”

Feliciano gave a giggle. “Isn’t this guy your boss now? I thought respect was meant to be a thing,” he stated with a raised brow and smug look.

“And that is exactly why people treat you like a doormat at times, Feli.”

The door opened with a faint creak and Gilbert greeted them with a classic, great big smile, arms extended as if preparing to give Lovino a hug. Over his dead body!

“Vargas, it’s good to finally see you here,” the albino greeted.

“Yeah, yeah,” Lovino said, rolling his eyes. “Whatever you say.”

He got a fraternal nudge from Feliciano, telling him to be polite, and Lovino gave his younger sibling a look that warned him against such behaviour himself. Whilst he was sure that both himself and Gilbert liked to appear as professionals to the wider public, there was no doubt that they themselves were not that professional at all. And, to make it even more amazing, neither of them gave a damn.

“Well, come on in, both of you!” Gilbert proceeded, moving away from the door and already beginning to wander the corridors before the Vargas brothers were both even inside. “Someone needs to pick where they want their office to be!”

“You mean you haven’t already delegated?” Lovino responded as he tried to catch up. “If I’d known, I would’ve waited before picking up the heavy shit!”

“It’s your office, not mine,” the albino said with a shrug; “It’s not my decision to make.”

He went on to give Lovino three options when the trio were all united at last in a foyer (complete with the office couches, the false-looking plants). The first room, he explained, was the biggest but also furthest from the main arena in case Lovino would prefer somewhere quieter for any evenings he ended up working. The second option was an L-shaped room, but for Lovino, the issue was being stuck two doors down from Gilbert, so he had refused that room rather quickly.

The last room that had been set aside was of a moderate size, a cosy box down the corridor that Lovino had come to associate with discarded cups, the smell of alcohol and alarmingly big secrets that you wouldn’t expect to find behind said doors.

It was Antonio’s corridor.

Or, that was what he called it. Lovino still held onto the picture of the musician falling face-first over the obstacles that blocked his route to the stage; he had no clue why such a thing still lingered in his mind, but he would appreciate the comedy of it at stupid hours in the morning when he couldn’t sleep. There was something about it—about _him_ —that he loathed but also kind of loved, in a way he couldn’t explain.

Lovino picked the third room, at the top of that very same corridor, only a couple of rooms separating him and the music studio that he was sure he’d have to visit soon. What was it like inside, he wondered. Had it been decorated too, with the universe and constellations, or with an atrocious mish-mash of colours and patterns? It was a world of mystery. _Fuck Antonio_ , he reminded himself as he, his brother and Gilbert walked single-file to his new office.

“So, Feliciano,” the German said, killing the silence as they went on stumbling past old boxes and bags of rubbish. “What’s living with your brother like?”

“Ehh—”

“Feli, I will actually hit you.”

“—it’s okay, but if he hasn’t had his morning caffeine, you’ll probably be murdered if you get on his nerves,” Feliciano replied. He had that innocent smile on his face, Lovino observed as he dared a glance backwards at the kid, but it was also horrifyingly devious. “You might want to hide if that’s the case.”

“Nahh, sounds like someone I know,” Gilbert said, and that was that. No name, no clue, no idea who the heck he was talking about. Antonio? The cat? Himself? Nothing.

Lovino quietly cleared his throat. “Sounds like you make the right kind of company, then.”

“It’s amusing,” the German concluded as he took a key from his pocket. “There’s something entertaining about seeing people in an absolute mess. And if you think you’re bad,” he added, unlocking the door to the room, “then wait until you see Antonio.”

A lump got caught in his throat for a split second before vanishing. Lovino didn’t want to think about having to put up with a grumpy Antonio—not when so used to seeing the cheerful one—but then he wondered how bad he could really be. Lovino grew much more vocal when he woke up on the wrong side of the bed, it was swearing galore. But when it came to Antonio, the guy had no means to be more vocal (as harsh as that sounded), so what did he actually do? Now he felt more curious than wary...

Gilbert was probably just teasing him, exaggerating, he concluded. There was no way in Hell anyone was worse than Lovino, and if someone thought otherwise, he would demand the ocular proof.

Feliciano set down Alby on the desk with a sudden thud. “This is such a good space!” he cried with joy, pulling his brother back into the moment. “Oh, fratello, I can’t wait to help you decorate—!”

“Who said anything about _decorating_?” Lovino responded with a raised brow. “My office, my rules. You get the apartment.”

“Aww, but _Loviiii_ ,” the younger whined, “that’s not fair! You _know_ we aren’t allowed to paint the flat! That’s so boring!”

Amidst the developing argument, Gilbert announced that he would go back with another team member to collect whatever remained in their car, not wanting to get in the way of a brotherly dispute. No one blamed him. Italians got intense when they fought like this— _especially_ if their name was Vargas.

“Touch the wall and you’re dead,” Lovino warned with a deep glare. “And if you even _try_ to put up one of your shitty motivational posters, I’ll confiscate your pans!”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Feliciano said, eyes wide as he gasped in horror. It was the one threat that he knew was not given lightly. “I need those to cook!”

“And I _don’t_ need to spend my days working with a colourful reminder that ‘the sky’s not the limit’ plastered on my wall!”

“Let me paint something!”

“No, you’ll paint something cheesy, or worse—childish!”

“You never let me even try! I just want to—!”

“No!”

“But—!”

Someone knocked on the door and halted the proceedings. Both Italians looked to the figure in the doorway, first with fiery eyes and irritated stares, but then they changed; Feliciano’s irritation became excitement and Lovino’s, a sense of ‘why the fuck am I here again?’ _Fuck Antonio._

The brunette gave them both a wave and a smile—in particular, an extended warm welcome was given to Feliciano, and Lovino’s frown returned as he wondered why. What, was the guy really that damn fickle? _God, what am I even saying?!_

“Oh, ciao!” the younger sibling greeted, approaching the strange man and extending a hand for it only to be shaking with just as much energy as he too possessed. Feliciano took a liking to this man, Lovino knew it, and it was a bad thing. “I’m Feliciano! It’s nice to meet you…?”

Knowing that Feliciano wouldn’t get an answer, Lovino interjected: “Antonio.”

“I’m sure he can tell me his own name, fratello,” Feliciano responded however, throwing a quizzical (critical?) look at his brother before returning his attention to the Spaniard, who seemed only a little embarrassed and unsure of what to do.

Lovino felt sorry for him in that moment. How could he explain to Feliciano the issue at hand when sworn to secrecy? He had promised not to tell and— No, wait, hold on! Antonio and Gilbert had asked for secrecy, and yet, here the former was just walking into rooms and—what—expecting new people to not speak to him and discover his muteness?

What a fucking idiot! There weren’t even enough words to describe him, or how quickly that pity turned into scorn and disapproval. No, he was insistent: Antonio had dug his own grave with this one, and Lovino was simply an onlooker at the funeral. Feliciano, the priest throwing soil back into the hole.

“Anyway, it’s nice to meet you, Antonio,” the bubblier one pressed on, still shaking that hand for whatever reason. He clearly couldn’t tell that the other was growing somewhat uncomfortable. “Lovino hasn’t told me very much about you, but he said you’re nice, so if we convert that into normal human relative terms, he means you’re absolutely lovely.”

At that, laughter was thrown into the air. Feliciano and Antonio had found a mutual amusement in the sentence and so had both felt an urge to express it. Great. Lovino had overlooked the jab, however, because only one person was actually laughing aloud. Feliciano’s summery laugh filled the room. All that left Antonio was air, a silent laugh, harrowing and begging for sympathy...

“Yeah, my brother’s an odd one,” Feliciano said, turning to face said brunette with a content smile. Had he not realised what had just happened? Lovino tried to hide his guilt, “but he’s a good one once you get to know him.”

Their eyes met. Antonio didn’t have to say anything for Lovino to able to read his look, but he found himself suddenly growing a little warmer—a bit more awkward—underneath that gentle green gaze. Oh, how he _hated_ that man and everything he made Lovino feel with a passion! But how he also enjoyed it, to feel important and special and cared about by people.

“So, tell me a little about you, Antonio,” Feliciano requested. “I’m intrigued.”

 _Oh fuck._ Antonio’s smile faltered and his eyes fell upon Lovino once more, a plea of ‘help me’ passing through the air. _Mega fuck!_

Lovino tried to intervene with a: “Don’t bother him, he’s only passing by; he’s got to get to work—” but Feliciano didn’t seem to get the hint.

“I’m sure he can spare a minute, fratello, it’s not like I’ll be back here anytime soon,” the younger reasoned. “I’m just trying to be social.”

“And _he_ has writing to do!”

“Lovi, seriously?”

Feliciano turned to his brother, arms crossed, and Antonio took the opportunity to give the elder Italian a saluted thanks and flashy smile before hurrying out of the room and away. Cheeky bastard, Lovino yelled at him in his mind. He would have to have words with that damned idiot if he was going to be working there—Rule One, stay away from the family!

“What? I told you—look, he’s gone,” he said in finality, throwing a loose, tired hand towards the empty doorway. _Fuck him._ “Busy guy.”

“Shame,” Feliciano sighed quietly as his brother went about unpacking his first big box.

“What is?” he asked.

“He was kinda cute.”

“And not your type.”

The younger brother quirked a brow, a curiously devilish smile on his face. “Oh? How would you know, eh?”

Lovino scoffed. “Well, judging from your Instagram, you’re into blondes, to begin with."

That shut his brother up very nicely, indeed. With what dignity remained, Feliciano could only shake his head and departed for the car. Lovino figured he must’ve passed Gilbert on his way, glummer and more visibly annoyed than before, since the German promptly appeared in the room with a guy from Tech (Mathias, was it?) and the three remaining boxes of papers and knick-knacks that he hadn’t the heart to get rid of.

Mathias left as per Gilbert’s request and the two were left alone in a silent room until, at last, it was broken.

“So, Antonio popped by, huh?”

“How’d you know?” Lovino asked, only half-interested as the unpacking got underway. “Feli tell you?”

“No,” Gilbert responded as if it were the most incredulous possibility on Earth. “Toni basically just raced outside and told me he’d accidentally met your brother, and that you saved his skin.”

Well, that was surprising. “Is that so?”

The German hummed. “Yeah, we left him to get some fresh air in the car park. Probably needed it, he’s been working ever since five this morning without having left his ro—”

“Wait wait wait,” Lovino interrupted, however. “He’s in the car park?”

“Toni? I don’t doubt it.”

“Fuck!”

“What?”

“Feliciano’s heading to the car,” Lovino explained, putting down what was in his hands (a photo of him and his brother in Rome last summer) before hurrying from the room to try and save Antonio’s ass once more from the curious tendrils of Feliciano.

He didn’t make it in time.

“Feli, wait—!”

“Holy shit, no way! You’re _what_?!”

Lovino held back a scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'AN UPDATE, AT LAST!' THE CROWD CRIES!
> 
> Yes, I live, and I'm sorry this took an unprecedentedly long time to release compared to other chapters. I just got stuck for a little moment on a future chapter, and, as per my rules, that stopped me from publishing until I overcame that hurdle.
> 
> FUN FACT: The whole 'Alby'/albero thing comes from a friend who bought a small tree for his uni room, who was subsequently named 'Arby' because of the Spanish 'árbol', meaning tree. Just a nice lil' snippet from real life for ya, folks!
> 
> Anyways, someone needs to sort out Feliciano's potty mouth. He's been around Lovino for too long. And sort out Toni in the mean time, please. He's just a numpty... :'3


	7. Tell Me, Tell Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feliciano can't stay mad at his brother for long. Lovino can.
> 
> But bygones will be bygones for these two in the end; especially when Lovino asks Feliciano a very, very important thing (or at least, to him it is, anyway...).

The air was stale and stagnant at the dinner table that night. After the incident in the car park, it seemed that some small barrier had been erected between the two brothers, only a single brick missing in the middle so they could still look each other in the eyes. Lovino twirled the tagliatelle around his fork and watched the creamy sauce glimmer in the light. Care hadn't gone into the dish. Care _still_ wasn't going into the dish, really...

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Lovino didn’t look up from his bowl. “Tell you what?” he asked.

“About Antonio.”

“It wasn’t for me to say.”

“You made me look like an idiot, fratello.”

“Ha, you know you don’t need my help to do that.,,”

Feliciano gave a sigh and sat back in his chair, fork placed down gently against the white porcelain. Silence returned. He wasn’t quite sure what it was, but in this kind of atmosphere, Lovino found it hard to be sincere. He couldn’t bring himself to apologise or try to lighten the mood. He just wallowed in what was. He let it be. And he could tell his brother wished he would do otherwise.

“How do you talk to him, then?” Feliciano questioned.

Lovino looked up from his bowl and met the hazel eyes—the ones that showed him their mother, their grandfather. “We sit down and play charades together,” he said flatly.

“I’m being serious,” the other complained. “Have you actually _tried_ to learn sign language?”

“What for?”

“Well firstly,” Feliciano said, evidently trying to reign in the sassy tone he had developed (thanks, Feliks!), “it would probably make life a little easier for both of you if you had some basic understanding of the language,” he explained. And then his tone softened, and he grew a smile. “And secondly, he’d probably appreciate the extra effort. I can teach you!”

“I have Gilbert,” Lovino countered. “He acts as an interpreter—and quite happily, might I add.”

“Gilbert might not always be there when you need his help to understand Toni, you know.”

“,,,What do you mean?”

The smile grew wicked. “Seriously? I mean, come _on_ , fratello,” he slurred, “surely you’ve noticed a little something in yourself ever since you first did that interview a couple weeks ago… Right?”

 _Sly mother-fucker_ —

“No, I haven’t,” Lovino replied sternly, a subtle but daring glare in his features. If Feliciano wanted to play and tease and—and—insinuate such things!—then he would certainly rise to the challenge if for only his dignity's sake. “Is there something you want to tell me, or…?”

But his brother was just as driven. “No, no,” he insisted with all the innocence of Heaven, “not at all, I guess. Just imagining things...”

Feliciano proceeded to tuck into his dinner and Lovino spent an idle moment watching him, trying to work out what the heck he was suggesting. Lovino wasn’t any different, was he? He wasn’t acting out of character, he hadn’t _changed_ —the only thing he had done was get a new job with a good contract, a good label and good people. What was there to be so cryptic about? _‘He’d probably appreciate the extra effort’_. What was that even supposed to mean? As if— As if Antonio cared whether Lovino could use ASL or not, he— He—!

Maybe learning sign language was not a bad idea at all. Feliciano had learnt it a year ago, back when he met a deaf kid at work whom he soon befriended. The stories he would tell of being so happy to see his new friend walking into the patisserie with their mother, of learning how to sign over a hot chocolate and strawberry tart. Ugh, why did he have to be the fucking perfect son? Lord above…

But could his brother really teach him? Could he build up the courage and swallow his pride in order to ask? Yes and no, he concluded. If his pride was at stake, he wasn’t sure he wanted to risk it. Maybe he could live without...?

“How’s work, anyway?” he decided to ask, a clean change of subject. “You still talking to that guy you stalk on Instagram?”

At this, Feliciano grew flustered. Ha! “Work’s fine, and so is Matthew, grazie…”

“So you _are_ still stalking him, then?”

“I’m doing no such thing!”

“ _Sure_. But you think he’s cute?”

Feliciano gave a short huff. “I dunno, he’s sweet and all but he’s very quiet and reserved,” he pondered. “I don’t really think he’s my—”

“—your type, right,” Lovino concurred. “So what _is_ your type, then?”

“Not Antonio, according to you.”

Fuck, how on Earth did he manage to bring the conversation right back to where Lovino had tried to drive it from with fire and holy water and every single curse his mind could conjure?! Damn Feliciano and everything he stood for! Lived for! _Fuck!_

“Just answer the question,” Lovino said.

“Yeah, yeah,” he responded with a roll of his eyes. “I’m just more into guys who are funny, strong, tall…”

“The opposite of you, then?”

“Uh—! Speak for yourself, shortie!” Feliciano retorted, laughing. “What about you, huh? What kind of guys are you into, since we now know you’re gayer than me!”

“I am _not_ gayer than you!” Lovino retaliated. “Being gayer than you is as hard as having to listen to you sing and cook at the same time!”

“At least I can admit I’m gay without hesitation!”

Lovino paused, a frown marring his features, before he shook his head in disappointment. “Shame on you, fratellino. _Shame on you._ ”

“So when are you going to tell him you like him?”

“Who?”

“You know who.”

“Fucking Voldemort?”

“I sure hope you aren’t!”

“ _Feli._ ”

“Antonio, duh!”

“I don’t—” Lovino stopped to clear his throat and calm his tone. There was no need to overreact and give Feliciano exactly what he wanted. Relax, he told himself, breathe and don't move, and he'll forget you're there _._ “I honestly have no clue what you’re on about.”

“No? Oh…” He seemed disappointed. “So you don’t find his eyes incredibly charming and kind, or his smile warming and sweet, or his beautifully tanned skin a little…” Feliciano raised a teasing brow and bit his lip. “ _Tempting?_ ”

He— Did he just— Lovino had no idea what is was in that moment that made him stand up and throw a 'fuck you' at his brother, lowly and calmly, before swiftly departing from the table, but his body did it anyway. Something had snapped inside of him. That was different. Well, it was kind of different; Lovino would normally stay seated, he supposed, and give Feliciano the silent treatment because nothing annoyed the attention-loving bastard more, but now he was retreating to his room to hide from the entire world, it seemed.

Lovino knew his brother was just trying to get at him—to wind him up just as he used to when they were younger, naïve children—but that didn’t mean Lovino was going to tolerate it just because they were still family. Feliciano knew he was being an irritating ass. He knew that by bringing the _other_ bastard back into the forefront of his mind would rile him up… Somehow...

With a sigh of confused emotions and feelings, the journalist sat in the chair in the corner of his room, staring at the opposite corner as he pulled a cushion from behind his back onto his lap. He wished he wasn’t like this. He wished he could play things off with a smile or a laugh like Feliciano could, and that he could hide certain emotions much better than he could. He felt vulnerable. Weak. By storming out, he no doubt made exactly how he felt— _What do I even feel?_ —very clear to an alarmingly and secretly observant Feliciano and all his gossiping, obsessive behaviours.

He found himself holding tightly onto the cushion as he fell deeper into his mind. He held it for comfort as a child would hold a cuddly toy, a pacifier of another kind. Was this what Antonio was like with Francis, perhaps? Was the cat just something to give him peace amidst the chaos of his life, a life jacket to keep him afloat as the seas got rough? (too extreme a metaphor, Lovino, the guy is more together than you are!). He threw the cushion onto his bed and held in a scream.

Feliciano knocked on the door. “Lovino…?”

He struggled to reply, dreading what would befall him if his brother walked into the unlocked room and saw him in this silent mess. His eyes fell on the door. “What?” he asked, trying to be stern but failing to hide the small crack in his voice.

“I— I didn’t mean to upset you or anything,” the quiet response came. “I was only joking, but…” Then a pause. “If you need to talk to me about anything you’re feeling, then I’m always here for you, Lovi. Siamo fratelli per sempre.”

“Fratelli per sempre,” Lovino muttered under his breath in surrender.

He took a moment to calm himself and fix his thoughts—to organise them alphabetically, numerically, however they felt neatest—and he got up from his chair. In all his years, he had rarely asked his brother for any advice that didn’t revolve around cooking, and yet, he suddenly felt compelled by a promise from their youth to ask Feliciano something just as unusual. This was more weakness, he knew that, but he wasn't sure he could fall any lower that evening than he already had...

Lovino opened the door and looked at those apologetic hazel eyes with regret. “Can I… Can I ask you just one, very simple question?”

“Of course. That’s what I’m here for,” Feliciano nodded with a soft smile.

“How do you ignore someone? Like, you still talk to them, but you don’t let them get inside your head?”

His brother seemed rather surprised (or just baffled) by the question, however. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“I-I mean exactly what I said! Say— Say you work with someone you find annoying or irritating and you don’t want to let it bother you, because you still have to talk to them and work together, which you don’t mind as much,” Lovino explained with sudden vigour and energy. “How do you force yourself to play it off and not let them get to you while you work?”

“...Is this about Antonio—?”

“Forget who it’s about—just tell me your damn secret!”

Feliciano hurried himself out of his own slight confusion and wariness with a pained noise, which became a hum, and then, at last, words. “It’s not really something you learn—you just kinda do it.” But his brother didn’t like that answer so he quickly added: “At least, you can’t learn it quickly! It takes time to figure out what works best for you.”

“That doesn’t really make sense—”

“Just hear me out for a second, Lovi,” Feliciano urged, silencing his brother with a sassy hand. “Let’s say that… You work with someone who is like me, okay? They smile a lot, they’re quite lively and bubbly, and are therefore completely the opposite to you—”

“That feels like a jab.”

“—which means that you don’t take to them warmly. They can be annoying, their demeanour can be frustrating—whatever.” Feliciano looked to Lovino with an almost hopeful glint in his amber eyes, and Lovino saw his grandfather in that moment. “But there’s also something about that smile that you like. It’s refreshing. Different. You have to come up with a compromise, then, don’t you? So what do you do?”

“I try to distract myself whilst still somehow paying attention to what ever crap is being said.”

“Okay, but how?”

“I don’t know, that’s why I’m fucking asking!”

This was getting very boring, very quickly. All Lovino had asked for were for some advice and tips that he could put into practice the next time he had to deal with Antonio. Because every time that they crossed paths or accidentally looked at each other, Lovino was filled with some kind of frustration mixed with something else he couldn’t quite pin, and he was worried that it would prevent him from doing what was expected of him within his new job.

He— He couldn’t afford to make mistakes with his new contract. Yes, that was it: he couldn’t afford to let himself get distracted! Antonio was going to be his downfall before he had even begun if he didn’t sort himself out and get his act together. Why couldn’t Feliciano see that? Why was his brother not being as helpful as he was sure he could be?

“I’m being serious, Feli,” he implored, though his tone was much more tired and short, “I need your help here before I screw this up for myself.”

His younger brother hummed pensively. “It’s like I said: you’ll have to figure out your own technique, but perhaps if you worked a little on your overly negative attitude and maybe focused on what you like about working with Ant— _This certain individual_ ,” he amended after receiving a glare, “then you won’t be concerning yourself with what you don’t like.”

“And in basic terms, you want me to…?”

Feliciano only rolled his eyes, this time, but it was still in that fraternal, caring way that Lovino struggled to explicitly replicate. “What do you like about working with this person?”

“Their… Positivity,” Lovino replied after a moment. _That and I’m so fucking engrossed in his personal story now, bastard-number-fucking-two._

“How does it make you feel?”

“ _Seriously?_ ”

“Welcome to therapy, I’m your psychiatrist," the younger beamed in a notably mocking way; "Now answer the question, Lovino Vargas!”

“Fine, Jesus—!” He huffed to hide his shock. “It’s unique, I guess... It’s almost like it’s inspiring, a door to a different life—one that I don’t lead.”

“So, I want you to focus on that,” Feliciano urged him. He was doing that smile again, the one that meant he knew he had the upper hand, the authority. Ughh... “Don’t dread having to interact with them; all you need to do is remind yourself of how their positivity makes you feel: good. And embrace it.”

 _And embrace it_ , he mimicked in his head, though he didn't maintain his scepticism for too long. Was it really as easy as he made it out to be? Lovino supposed he would have to wait and find out tomorrow when he was at work, when he could test out the theory. He hoped it would be easy. He didn’t particularly want to spend most of his time developing a technique for ignoring Antonio’s more irritating qualities instead of doing what he was being paid to do. Writing kept him busy and his mind occupied; anything else would generally just tire him out or make him want to scream.

He really didn’t want to do that—not in front of _that_ bastard, in particular.

“Should we maybe go back to eating dinner together, now? I can teach you a little sign language as we go.”

Lovino looked at Feliciano, a miniscule delay in his response, but he gave a nod and rose from his seat. “That’s the best idea you’ve had all evening, fratellino. Andiamo, fratello.”

And not another minute of his evening was spent worrying about the next time he saw Antonio and had to try and remain calm as his emotions fucked themselves up in some inexplicable manner. Yes, he could to this, he told himself. He would do this job, he would enjoy it, and he would not let the damned Spaniard and his forest-green eyes and his wholesome, perfect smile win this battle! No, sir, not today!

Or ever, he hoped...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a little all over the place, I think. Couldn't seem to work out what the ending needed to be, which fucked up the middle, but hey, at least Lovino has accepted he's gay (even if he's 'less gay' than Feli) and that perhaps he likes parts about Toni despite the overall annoyance he feels towards the guy.
> 
> Let's hope his sign language lessons go well.
> 
> And, speaking of languages - exams done for the moment, thank God! (Italian went better than the Spanish ones, oops). Have a quick lesson: '(siamo) fratelli per sempre' = '(we are) brothers forever' and 'andiamo' = let's-a go!~
> 
> Heh, close enough.
> 
> I love the idea of Lovino being (unwittingly and partially) smitten with Antonio. Way to turn the tables, eh? I just hope he doesn't wrongly convince himself that, actually, Toni isn't worth his effort, because that would be a huuuge m i s t a k e.
> 
> So, stay tuned to find out one of Antonio's other vices and Lovino's thoughts of the Spaniard's 'other music' in Chapter 8! Amore a tutti! :3


	8. Plucking The Strings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lovino's career as in-house - uh - person(?) - begins.
> 
> Or, alternatively:
> 
> Lovino passes through the magic-space-door-thing and finds himself in... Narnia?

“Okie dokie, so,” Gilbert said to Lovino as the pair walked along the corridor the Italian shared with He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named (and who was still not Voldemort), “this week is just about getting used to the ropes and how the industry works within our label. Have you ever been in a music studio before?”

“Only in the booth for interviews,” Lovino answered. “And only once.”

“Then this is going to be something new and exciting for you!” the German beamed.

Lovino wished he could share the same enthusiasm, but Feliciano’s voice came back once more to his mind and told him that there was no reason to worry about what was to come. He just had to focus on his work. Seeing Antonio was work. He only needed to focus on what he liked about that kind of work: seeing his smile (not that he had told Feliciano that so explicitly) and everything else would come together. Everything was perfectly normal.

Oh, but he had also come prepared with a very small bank of sign-able words in his head that his brother had taught him the night before. There was going to be no embarrassment. He was taking this seriously. A job was a job, but this job could be the best one he’d ever had if he let it become so, Feliciano reminded him from afar.

Gilbert knocked on the door of a familiar dressing room. “Toni?”

The door opened within milliseconds, as if the Spaniard had been stood behind the door for the past five minutes waiting for them, and he greeted the pair with a bright smile. Lovino met his eyes but gave no reaction; instead, his gaze dropped and landed on— _The fucking cat!_ The cat was being cradled like a baby, and this was honestly becoming a joke. Did he do it on purpose or did he just not know how ridiculous it looked?

Lovino was starting to dislike that cat very, very much.

“Have you managed to set everything up yet?” Gilbert asked as he came into the room, taking a moment to give the cat ( _Fuck the cat._ ) a scratch behind the ears before continuing. Antonio had only given him a nod since his hands were full. “Nice, okay. Take Francis to the booth and go and sort your bits out, then we can get started!”

Antonio gave him a mock salute and went on through his magical space door, and Lovino had to stop himself from shaking his head. A year with Feliciano, a year with these guys… The decision was something that still sat heavily on his shoulders as he tried to weigh them out. A year with Feliciano, a year with these guys and the _cat_. Which was still notably in its little diaper. Lovino now had to hold back a snort of laughter instead.

“Out of curiosity,” Gilbert asked, saving him unwittingly, “who was it you interviewed in the recording booth that one time?”

“Uh—” Think of the name, Lovino, come on! “—it was Lucille. Singer-songwriter originally from Monaco.”

“Rings a bell…” the other mused.

“Bonnefoi?”

“Oh.”

Something seemed to halt Gilbert in his tracks for a moment. Lovino wasn’t sure what it was exactly, but he was sure a flicker of recognition had flashed in the other’s red eyes upon hearing the surname. Did he know her? Was there something personal going on there? A former interest, perhaps? He supposed he would have to wait and find out. Yippee!

The albino awoke from his mini-slumber with a slightly forced smile. “Well anyway, we’d best go make sure that Antonio doesn’t accidentally electrocute himself with the wiring.”

“Is that a common occurrence?” Lovino queried, following Gilbert towards and then through the Magical Space Door (yep, that name was there to stay).

“Ha, you’d be amazed,” was all he got as a reply.

He would have said something back to help satisfy his intrigue, but his attention was almost immediately stolen by the next two rooms he was able to see. The space he and Gilbert had stepped into was the booth (completed with a complimentary cat) which extended ahead of them, a dark space that had continued the galactic theme across its walls under an amber-lit sky.

But that was not what Lovino was looking at.

His eyes were busy looking at the recording room where Antonio was busy messing around with a multitude of wires. It was a fairly big space adored with various instruments as well as familiar mixing decks, and spread out across all three walls was a vast forest of every shade of green imaginable; the leaves were so detailed, filling up what could have been a skyline, and amongst them appeared animals—deer, rabbits, and right at the back in the centre, an animal that was very out of place, but the trademark of this particular artist: a bull as black as the night, flowers wrapped delicately around its horns.

What. The. Fuck.

“You like it, huh?”

It took Lovino a short eternity to blink himself out of his stupor and realise that Gilbert was actually talking to _him_. And judging from the smug, knowing look on the other’s face, Lovino’s awe had evidently been plastered all over his features in a no doubt embarrassing and colourful display. He cleared his throat in an attempt to assert what little dignity remained.

“Yeah, what of it?” he replied, his eyebrow quirking. “It’s impressive. Different.” Lovino scoffed. “Better than whatever mess _he_ made in the dressing room, for sure.”

“Antonio painted that as well,” Gilbert said with a sharp nod to the Narnian forest.

“…He did?”

“All on his own, too. It took him nearly three weeks, working every day from nine until nine,” he pressed on, “but he got it done. Just goes to show.”

“Show what?”

“That you can do anything if you put your mind to it,” Gilbert told him.

Lovino was left in a struck silence. How on Earth had Antonio been able to paint something like that—something so detailed and original—in only three weeks? This wasn’t a small space they were talking about: it was quite big, and these trees were something that had sprung out of an art gallery—the fucking Louvre! Ugh, it reminded him so much of Feliciano! Why was it that they had so much in common, huh? Talent, optimism, utter carelessness? Nothing had ever felt so infuriating!

But he could not deny that what he was looking at was indeed art. Each look seemed to give light to some new feature, a new emotion that he felt had moved the paintbrush for that particular patch of leaves or fur. Lovino had to ask, however: why a forest? Why something so serene and—well— _different_ to the mayhem of the dressing room?

Gilbert pressed a blue button at the large desk in the booth, allowing his voice to project through the one-way glass so that Antonio could hear him: “Have you got it all sorted now or do you want a hand?” he asked, but the Spaniard shook his head. “Then grab your headphones and get to it, man!”

The enthusiasm was something that made Antonio laugh (his sad, silent laugh) as he carefully placed down the final wires he had been moving around, but he soon clapped his hands and signed something to the window. Lovino couldn’t understand any of it, but soon enough he would, he promised them all…

“Oh… Well, it’s up to you,” Gilbert said to the unspoken question. “You know the tracks better than anyone, Toni. Pick what you want to do and just do what you usually do, eh?”

Antonio gave a slow nod and then addressed the various instruments on and against the left-hand wall. Was this it, Lovino wondered, was this where he was now going to see what other kind of music that the other brunette produced? Something that didn’t feel like it was trying to pierce your eardrums and rattle your bones? He wasn’t so sure when he saw that Antonio had taken an electric guitar into his hands.

“Good choice,” Gilbert said, though whether he was complimenting the shiny metallic work of the crimson guitar or the music it would help create was unclear to the Italian.

From the woods came a thumbs-up, and Antonio was then officially lost to them as he checked the tuning, plucking gently at the steel strings with his fingers and adjusting what was presumed to be the volume of the instrument through the amp. It was a powerful metal sound that resonated through the room; luckily for Lovino, the wall that separated him and Antonio was thick enough to cancel most of the noise thanks to some cleverly placed sound-proofing pads.

The journalist (ex-journalist? He wasn’t sure what his job title technically was anymore) watched out of the corner of his eye as Gilbert fiddled with some more buttons here and there before giving the signal that they were ready. Another nod came, a final switch was flicked, and Lovino’s eyes widened at what was given to him.

The recording studio grew darker—not completely obscured, but close enough—and small glowing bulbs gradually lit up in the forest in the forms of fireflies, implanted into the walls and some even hanging from the ceiling (how had he missed that?!) in what became an even more magical work. Living art, Lovino breathed silently, this was living, moving art, and he had been given it for free. Feliciano would have been jealous. But the kid would also have been proud of the world that had been created here… _Fireflies_ …

And then, as if that wasn’t enough, the guitar began to sing and what left it was not a harsh, scratching sound but something slower and much more soothing. Fingers moved decisively across the strings, treating them with compassion, thanking them for their work with respect, praising them from above with a pensive smile. This was so different to what Antonio had performed on stage when they first met. This— _this_ , he decided—was music.

He was captivated by this realm. He was so invested, he was so engrossed, that Lovino didn’t notice Gilbert straight away, rolling his chair up to his side with a cat in his arms and a knowing smile on his face. Only when he felt the impatient poke against his arm was he so swiftly pulled from his dream.

Lovino gave a short frown. “What?” he asked.

“What do you think?” Gilbert responded in a tone that implied he had already asked once or twice at the very least. The brunette only felt half-bad.

“It’s nice,” he answered. “Different to what else I’ve heard him do so far. Much less ear-rapey, if you ask me.”

Gilbert snorted his laughter. “Yeah, he said he wanted to try something knew this season, and when I first heard it, I was kinda alarmed by how different it was,” he explained, not that Lovino had asked for the backstory of the music he was _trying_ to listen to. “But it works. It’s like his calm side has taken over and decided to compose something with— Proper, heart-felt _meaning._ ”

“I understand what you’re saying, I guess…” Lovino mused. “But do you not think that the same kind of emotion goes into everything he produces?”

At this, he received a look he wasn’t sure how to describe. It wasn’t confused, but it was almost as if he had said something that made no sense. “Vargas,” Gilbert said, “there is a very distinctive difference between the various types of emotion. You need to ask yourself as you listen: what feelings were behind making the songs he performs on stage, and what feelings are behind making the songs he keeps to himself?”

That was terribly thought-provoking for his first proper day on the job. He refocused his ears on the melody Antonio played—the one that was building up, getting louder and more powerful—and all he could hear was joy, happiness and life. The same things he could see in the Spaniard’s smile, or in his eyes, whenever they crossed paths.

And then he thought back to the music he played when they first met, the electronics, the robotic nature of each song. That was not joy, that was not happiness… In all fairness, he was not quite sure what it was instead, but Lovino could appreciate that they were not the same. Antonio clearly enjoyed both types of music, but… Lovino had to wonder if, based on what Gilbert had said, Antonio had ever let negative emotions sit in the recording studio.

He hadn’t noticed until Gilbert began to talk aloud that the song had finished. “Happy with the warm-up?” he asked Antonio, who Lovino looked at as he continued to toy with such ideas in his head— _anger, upset, hate?_ —with a smile.

Antonio gave him the affirmative as the main lights grew slightly brighter and hung the guitar back up with cautiousness (else he let the magic crash to the floor), and his German manager went back to playing about with the buttons in front of him. For some odd reason, Lovino imagined him in a military base at the moment, fingers dancing only centimetres away from a ‘launch all missiles’ button, and he laughed to himself quietly. He wouldn’t put it past Gilbert, he really wouldn’t.

“Gear up then, Toni,” he said, oblivious to Lovino’s fantasies, “so we can try and get this track finished.”

The Italian turned to look at the German as the Spaniard went about his own business, and he couldn’t stop himself from asking: “Are you working on an album at the minute?”

“Uh… Kind of?” Gilbert replied.

Lovino’s face went flat, suddenly unamused. “Well, don’t you know?”

“It’s not that I don’t know,” the other replied with a roll of his bloodied eyes, “but it’s not exactly going to a public album. Not for now, at least.”

“So what’s it for, then?” he asked. When Gilbert gave him a look that asked ‘why the heck do you need to know?’, Lovino only huffed. “You need to start letting me in on your business secrets if I’m going to do a good job, here. Think of this as a— A mini, preliminary interview, hm?”

Gilbert seemed less than impressed, but he was compliant nonetheless. “Fine,” he grumbled. “If you really want to know, this is to do with that possible touring deal I mentioned back at the café. Do you remember?”

“The one with that other artist, you mean? Who wants in on the project?”

“That’s the one,” Gilbert nodded slowly. He leant back in his swivel chair and stroked the plush fur of the incredibly privileged ( _special_ , he thought) cat. “Thing is, this other small-time label wants to be convinced to join before they contribute any funding, and the only way to do that is for Toni to show them everything he is capable of on his own.” He sighed, clicking his tongue and meeting Lovino’s olive gaze. “That way, their own mini-music-man can decide if he likes our work.”

“ _His_ work, you mean,” Lovino said, jabbing a thumb towards the window and the musician on the other side who was somewhere in his own world.

“Either way, Vargas, this small album means a lot, and I have to make sure that Antonio shows off with it whilst not getting too big for his boots,” Gilbert pressed on, trying to be ignorant of the jibe. “Not that he needs much help; he’s so modest, it’s unreal.”

“You think that’s bad?”

Gilbert paused and thought, hand continuing to play with beige fluff. “Yes,” he eventually said, “because it also means that sometimes, Antonio can’t see what his work is truly worth.”

“What do you—”

“It’s a tough industry, Vargas. That’s all you need to know for now.”

And nothing more was said on the matter. All Lovino could do was simply look back at the man wearing the headphones, moving minimally to the music, who was modest, but in an apparently negative way…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, that was a slow chapter, but also - damn - I wish I had a magical studio like that at my disposal.
> 
> Jeez, Toni is lucky (you know, given everything else-)
> 
> But yeah, so, Toni plays a different kind of music that he hasn't ever shared publicly and you can bet your ass it'll appear more and more and this goes on because I love it so much.
> 
> Also, has anyone had any ideas about who might be in this other label, yet? We won't see them for a few chapters, I'll be honest, but I'm kinda intrigued to see what you guys think. I've hinted nothing, to be fair.
> 
> Also also, anyone reading Lovino here and thinking he's a little less-Lovino than normal? Eek. My bad, I guess. I can't keep him as grumpy and arsey now that I've opened the Pandora's box of his admiration of the FuCkInG sPaNiArD and his music. Whoops.
> 
> ...
> 
> Help me.


	9. Nel Mio Cuore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lovino sees another side to Antonio that he hadn't expected to see.
> 
> And Gilbert continues to be a pain in the ass.

The next day consisted of similar work to the day before, only, Lovino decided to get into work early and start thinking about how he was going to go about his new job. He had been given the week as an adjustment period—something he was grateful for—but even so, he still wasn’t sure how he was going to be big help in Antonio’s not-so-little project.

A list began to compile itself in his head—a list of questions that he could begin to collect over the next week so that he could conduct the first interview. And, in the meantime, perhaps he could learn some more sign language and actually put it to use. Yesterday, it had slipped his mind. He was too focused on the music and on simply listening and appreciating what Antonio was playing, that he never got around to showing off what he had learnt from his brother.

And of course, whilst this revelation had annoyed Lovino when he suddenly remembered halfway through dinner, it was nothing compared to the amount of disappointment he saw in Feliciano’s eye-roll from across the table.

“The whole point of teaching you is so that you use it,” the younger sibling had reminded him as he reached for another piece of garlic bread.

“Then start teaching me actual sentences,” Lovino had shot back, embarrassed, “rather than things like ‘cat’ or ‘coffee’, idiot…”

But in truth, he knew he was the one at fault, which was why he had gone into work with the mentality that today was the day he would give it a try and ask Antonio how he was. He would appreciate that, right?

Lovino had been in the office since six o’clock that morning. No one else had been around, he had assumed, other than the owner of the car in the parking lot—Gilbert’s. Not that he had seen Gilbert anywhere yet (another thing to be grateful for), which made him wonder if he was out in the local area having a drink in a café. Was he that kind of guy? Who knew?

Then he heard footsteps walking down the corridor. That in itself was a rarity—even in the middle of the day when everyone was in!—given that only a handful of things lay down the path: his office, Antonio’s room, the recording studio, and old storage room somewhere down the far end. So who could it be? He was already there, and frankly, that meant it could’ve been no one else other than—

His heart jumped a beat and he gave a strangled cough. The fuck? He smacked a fist against his own chest as both a punishment for hurting him and a way to try and clear whatever had just tried to kill him, and Lovino got up from his desk. The footsteps were just coming past his office, now, and he knew that perhaps this was his chance. It was either going to be Antonio or Gilbert. He was going to either look smart with his sign language, or just like an absolute fool.

Come on, he egged himself on, you might as well give it a shot. If it’s Gilbert, just tell him to walk quieter! Lovino laughed to himself and gave his brain a high-five for its surprisingly quick-thinking, and he went to the door with no more hesitation, opening it and stepping out into the corridor. And, as if God was shining a spotlight on him that day, Lovino was met with dark hair and unperturbed confidence continuing down towards the other rooms.

“Hey, Antonio,” he called after the Spaniard. He wasn’t sure if he had gone unheard at first, given how slow the reaction came, but surely enough, Antonio turned part way to face him.

Lovino noted that Francis was nowhere to be seen.

This was his moment. He took a deep breath and his hands made quick work of the simple question: _how are you this morning?_ Lovino finished without a smile, given that he had not finished the race yet, and he waited for some sort of response. And he waited, and he waited, and he waited, for what felt like minutes—and then, at last, Antonio gave him a smile that Lovino recognised from all of their previous encounters. A weight was lifted off his shoulders.

Antonio’s hands replied: “Tired, but fine,” with a ‘thank you’ tagged onto the end. This was it, Lovino beamed on the inside, this was the beginning of his success here. “And you?”

“Bored,” was all he could think to sign back.

_Thank you, Feliciano, so very, very much,_ his heart cried out.

Antonio laughed his soundless laugh—though it had become less harrowing and more driving for Lovino over the short time they had known each other—and invited Lovino to walk with him with the flick of his hand, his smile still prominent and bright. How could he refuse?

They ended up in the music studio together shortly after, lights on, back in the painted world of tranquillity that Lovino had fallen in love with only the day before. He stopped in the recording booth as Antonio proceeded into the actual studio, unsure of what he was supposed to do or what he was going to be shown, but apparently that wasn’t what Antonio had intended him to do. The older brunette beckoned him again—inside the studio, this time—and Lovino followed with almost no resistance. _Pah, since when?!_

Unfortunately, from there on out, Lovino’s minimal knowledge of sign language was unable to help him, and the world’s worst game of charades ensued. Antonio sat down at a large keyboard, patting the space next to him so that Lovino knew he could sit down. He wasn’t sure what it was in that moment, but the Italian was hesitant. He started to wonder why he was there, for what possible reason—? But he soon took a seat, defeated by the eyes and the lips that reassured him that it was safe. That is was okay.

Antonio’s fingers rested on top of a handful (two handfuls, technically) of keys and he looked to his right, the forest meeting an olive grove. He nodded to the instrument. Lovino gave a small, confused frown. Antonio pushed on the keys and let the notes draw out. Then he nodded his head to the instrument once more.

“Are you asking me if I can play?” Lovino speculated, and he got a sheepish nod in reply. Wow, what a guy. “Then no. I can’t.”

Because Lovino had never been graced with any creative talents other than the one he possessed for writing. It started off as poetry, and then he ventured into satire, and from there he learnt the art of journalism and entertainment of the masses. Feliciano, on the other hand, was the one with the artist flare, born with a silver paintbrush in his hand rather than a silver spoon. Lucky bastard.

But then, Feliciano worked in a bakery. Lovino worked there, now. There, in his own office, in pretty much total control of what he was doing, so in reality, wasn’t _he_ the lucky one?

Antonio waved off the reply, perhaps telling him not to worry about it, and he began to play a calm, soothing melody, the keys sinking and rising with precision and neatness. It was easy enough to recognise the tune as harmonic to what Lovino had heard the day before, on the guitar. He didn’t even realise it, but he had started to quietly hum along at some point as he was dragged into another world of blissful serenity.

It was charming, to be lost in this world. To not have to worry about the stresses the day would bring, nor the worries that would come to keep him up at night. This was why Antonio did it, wasn’t it? This was his therapy. This was how he had pulled himself from the wreckage of Fate and saved himself. This was his salvation. His escape.

“Why are you writing this song?” he found himself asking.

The music came to an abrupt halt.

Lovino turned his gaze slowly to look at the Spaniard but found that his eyes were almost glued to his own hands, frozen atop the keys. Had he asked the wrong thing? Had it sounded too harsh, too intrusive? Or… Had he hit a nerve without realising it?

Antonio’s fingers curled away from the keyboard, taking their time as he appeared to think over his answer. _I wish he could speak_ , Lovino found himself thinking as he watched the other’s movements. _I wish he had his voice back._ And why he thought that— Well, so that the idiot could just say what was on his mind, of course! It would be easier for everyone if he was able to speak English rather than Lovino having to learn an entire new language! _Dammit—_

“I mean— Why this _kind_ of song?” he amended, not that Lovino thought it was any better. “It’s so different to what else I’ve heard you play. I just thought there may be a reason for it.”

But all he received was a slow shake of the head, a pensive, glum look in those gentle green eyes. And a shrug, to finish it off.

He knew that perhaps it was not the wrong question, but the wrong time to ask it, rather. It had become apparent in the movements he saw before him how tired Antonio actually looked that morning, and Lovino wondered for how many hours he had managed to sleep the night before. Had he had his morning coffee? That was a thought, he mused, being reminded of Gilbert’s words on the day he’d moved in.

“Ah, no worries,” he abided, “I'm just being nosy.”

But god damn, he wanted to know…

The silence lasted only a short time longer before the calm piano music continued (albeit at a somewhat quieter level) and music filled the room and all the present ears at once: Lovino’s, Antonio’s and—

A meow came from seemingly nowhere and both brunettes whipped around in shock only to find Gilbert stood in the booth, Francis in his arms, both leaning over the microphone. Gilbert wore a sly smile, and Lovino could just _picture_ the cat having a snarky, proud look on its stupid face, a million times worse than the cockiness that was lathered over the German’s own.

Lovino went to say something to give him a verbal whack upside the head, but was beaten to it when, out of the corner of his eye, he spied an extremely unimpressed look and then, to top it all off, a raised middle finger, steady and bold. Holy shit, this man was incredible…

“Damn, Toni,” Gilbert said, making a noise that was a freakish hybrid between his iconic laugh-snort and a horrified gasp, “have you had your daily caffeine shot?”

This was followed by an extremely rude gesture that even Lovino could recognise from his more rebellious days of youth, which directed Gilbert straight out of the room after telling Antonio to calm the fuck down. The Italian was left in awe. Who was this man sat next to him and where the _fuck_ had he been his whole life?!

Antonio went back to playing on his keyboard without another word ( _sign, dammit!_ ) and Lovino was left in his own amazed bubble. He, too, sat back around on the comfortable stool and continued to listen intently as Antonio’s fingers worked away at the keys, and that was how it remained for the next fifteen minutes, each tune blending into the next, in complete and utter peace. He could make a habit out of this, Lovino thought to himself. This was a nice way to spend the morning.

When the songs came to a steady, clean end, however, Lovino turned to find that Antonio was looking at him and thinking about something. And then he mimed a—a phonecall? No, no it was a phone— _idiot_ —and prompted Lovino to hand his over for whatever reason. It was needless to say that the Italian was a little befuddled, but when the device was handed back to him shortly after, he understood.

The mute musician had typed him something in a draft text message:

_This music, it’s the embodiment of some of my innermost feelings. It’s different to what you’ve already heard because this kind of thing comes from a place deeper than just the heart. It’s every single good memory and emotion that I have ever had, working together in different combinations and orders to create something new, yet just as good. Is that a satisfactory answer to your question?_

A ghost of a smile appeared on Lovino’s face, strangely humbled, and he nodded. There was no need to ruin anything with words. There was no possible way he would allow himself to speak and accidentally say something that would completely destroy the beauty that had just been created.

He couldn’t bring himself to admit it aloud, he couldn’t even bring himself to think about it for more than that split second, but Lovino let the thought drift past in the forefront of his mind as Antonio got up and got ready to leave to studio: there was something about the Spaniard that he liked— _really_ liked—and there was no longer any reason to think _fuck Antonio_ because this guy was a saint and an angel and a mystical creature all in one, and—

A whistle came from across the room, weak but still there, and Lovino came back to the present to see that Antonio was at the door, waiting for him to follow. There was a smile on his face (though there was also something else to it that Lovino couldn’t place, but there was no point dwelling on it when that smile made everything else seem trivial) and the journalist got up and went with, out of the forest, through the galaxy, into the absolute artistic wreck of a dressing room.

Gilbert was sat on the sofa waiting for them, cat on his lap and stroking it like a self-indulgent Bond villain.

“Feeling better?” the pale one asked the tanned one and, judging from his reaction to whatever Antonio signed back to him, his response was good enough for Gilbert. “Well, since we’re all here and it’s—” A quick glance at his watch. “—almost eight in the morning, maybe we can have a chat about this album, hm?”

“The ‘album that isn’t an album’ album, you mean?” Lovino repeated. He saw Antonio laugh next to him; only once, only briefly, but it still felt good.

“Yeah, that one,” Gilbert replied, a sharp look in his eye. “I got an email from Archipelago, and—”

“ _Who?_ ”

“The other label,” the German said flatly, before getting back on track: “I got an email from Archipelago and they’ve put forward the date to this Saturday. They want the material by then, otherwise they won’t be getting involved.”

Both Lovino and Antonio were in a stunned silence. “You’re joking,” the shorter of the two said. “That’s less than five days!”

“Yep.”

“Is this normal? How— How on earth are you going to get all of the tracks recorded, edited and produced onto a proper disc by Saturday?” Lovino cried.

Gilbert only rolled his eyes, and he turned his attention to the Spaniard. “How many songs have you got done?” Antonio held up four fingers. “In progress?” Three fingers. “Yet to be recorded?” One. “So that’s fine then—that’ll be enough time, if we all crack on with it!”

“You’re being way too optimistic,” the Italian mumbled. He could have sworn he felt a headache coming on—he was feeling anxious about this deadline, and he wondered why at first until he remembered—oh yeah!— _he needed this album to be done so that he actually had a fucking job!_ “How is any human supposed to get four full songs completed in four days?”

A snort. _Fuck Gilbert._ “A song per day. Right, Toni?”

The taller brunette gave an eventual, slow, distant nod.

“Then it’s settled! We have a lot of work to do so—” He stood up from the sofa with a sudden burst of energy and practically thrusted Francis into the unprepared arms of an alarmed Lovino, and then spun Antonio around and walked him back towards the recording studio. “—there’s no time to waste! We’ve got twelve hours to play with, boys, and we are going to use every second!”

Lovino, struggling for words, called after them: “What the fuck am I supposed to do in the meantime, eh?!”

Gilbert cast a brief glance over his shoulder, a wicked smile on his face. “Whatever floats your boat, Vargas. Just keep an eye on the cat, and don’t let him out of your sight.”

All that left Lovino was a sigh, and just as he went to return to his room, he caught a silent, mouthed message from Gilbert that warned him, if anything happened to the cat, then he would be dead meat.

What the fuck had he gotten himself into?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're just too adorable for words. Bless them both >w<
> 
> Soon enough, time will start passing a bit more quickly; I'm just trying to get the beginning and the basis of this friendship/relationship formed before I get ahead of myself. This is gonna be a long story, can you tell? :'3
> 
> I'm looking forward to introducing the Archipelago gang. It'll be a couple of chapters off, but now that Antonio has less time to produce music for them, they should only be like two weeks away from making themselves known in the narrative. And from there, shit only gets crazier!
> 
> Let me know what you guys think, as always, and I will wish you all a very Merry Christmas now, just in case I die over the next three weeks (blame essays, work, and my Barcelona trip!)
> 
> Ci vediamo, ragazzi! (At least Italian is keeping me sane-) ;3


	10. The Mad House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lovino invites someone to join him in his office.
> 
> Lovino is subsequently invited out of the office.
> 
> And then madness ensues, courtesy of family.

It had taken a lot of arguments with himself, as well as deliberation, but in the end, Lovino had come to the conclusion that calling his brother and inviting him over to the office was not actually a terrible idea. Feliciano wasn’t due to work until the afternoon, after all, and it was a simple enough bus route to HQ. And it would mean, of course, that someone could look after the fucking cat whilst he tried to work.

An hour had passed since he had been landed with the feline nappy-wearer, and he wasn’t sure he could take much more of it on his own. Lovino had been trying to work, but the cat just wanted all of his damn attention, all of the damn time! The thing would purr and rub against his leg, it would meow loudly at the plants (poor, defenceless Alby included) and it had even tried to get its claws out on his brand-new desk.

Thus, he had vowed: if Feliciano wasn’t there in the next half an hour, the cat was being thrown out of the window and into the alleyway outside. He was having _none of it._

His phone pinged.

_There in 10! xxxxxxxx_

It was a happy message—from Feliciano, of course—and Lovino felt that the same joy the text had been composed with had filtered into the air and then to his lungs. If Francis was so desperate for affection, then he was about to know what suffocating love was. Forget Antonio treating him like a kid, Feliciano was going to treat him like a three-year-old treated a cuddly bear. Oh, he could already _hear_ the cat-cries for help, and like Hell was he going to give the cat a lending paw— Fuck, _hand_ , shit—

His phone pinged again.

_Hope you’re okay, sorry about Gil…_

Who…? Lovino frowned at glanced up at the name of the contact that sat on its throne above the brand-new message chain. _Antonio._ Nooo, he hadn’t… Had he? He had, he must’ve done! The cheeky bastard!

 _He must’ve done a sneaky and put his number in my phone earlier on,_ Lovino told himself, shaking his head in disbelief. Sure, Antonio wouldn’t use a phone to make calls but of _course_ he could still fucking text people with his two perfectly good _hands._

Lovino nearly smacked his head against the desk.

Another ping.

_He’s wants what’s best for everyone…_

Yeah, well, he should’ve thought about that before shoving this insufferable cat into Lovino’s incapable arms. Francis had gone back to rubbing against his leg again (he wondered if the cat was gay. That was a thing, right?) and was moments away from being dropped-kicked down the hallway. Let’s see a bandage fix that, you—

And another.

_He just forgets that ‘everyone’ can also mean more than just the business._

Oh, brilliant, Lovino flailed; their boss was not only pushy and the owner of a tough-going work ethic, but he could also be an inconsiderate ass! This had been a bad idea all along, he lamented. Why had he ever agreed to this contract? Stupid, stupid, stupid! Damn Feliciano and Antonio for their smiles and happiness that had lured him in like a kid to candy. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

_If you want, we can grab a coffee together at lunch._

Lovino contemplated it, and then he texted back with a simple: ‘why?’ Why should he go with Antonio anywhere when the idiot had songs to record and get sorted all before the weekend began?

_It would save me from Gil’s lectures, for one._

Ha. A faint smile crept onto his face.

_And I think it’d be good to get to know you better._

The smile disappeared.

He wasn’t sure. Was that a good thing, that Antonio wanted to get to know him? Lovino assumed that he meant in that cheap way, talking over coffee in a busy café somewhere, but he had to paint a phone and rapidly-typed messages into his little picture to complete it. Antonio wanted to get to know him. _Better._

Ah, fuck it, what harm would it do?

So, Lovino agreed, and he told Antonio to tell him when he had been released from Hell for the hour so that they could go to a nearby coffee shop and have a chat. Feliciano would probably be gone by then, and if not, he could stay put and continue to indulge Francis until Lovino returned, Gilbert came back to claim his pesky cat, or until he simply got bored.

In the meantime, Lovino continued taking notes and ignoring the purring thing lingering around his feet, and Feliciano turned up no later than five minutes after Antonio had sent his most recent text. Perhaps it was handy that his brother had come to unpack Lovino’s stuff in the first place after all; the kid had remembered where he was going and had almost given his brother a heart attack when he flung the door open.

“Hiya, Lovi!” Feliciano beamed, barging into the room and throwing the door shut behind himself (but the cat could’ve made his way out of the room and gotten lost and that would have been the best solution for everyone, dammit—). “How’s work going?”

“Ciao,” Lovino managed to reply through a tired huff. Francis was rubbing against his right leg and he had to control the ‘spasms’. “Work’s slow. I blame the cat.”

“Cat?”

Lovino didn’t need to look at his brother or point—he knew the very moment in which Feliciano at last spotted the great big fluffy thing when he gave a childlike squeal of pure (sickening) joy, a seemingly universal noise he would make whenever he had spotted something he found cute, cuddly, charming, or all three at once.

Frankly, Lovino didn’t see _any_ of those things.

“Who’s this, and why haven’t you told me about him before?” Feliciano questioned, scooping up the animal, taking great care with it for whatever reason. “She’s so soft!”

Lovino held back a laugh which subsequently produced a loud, painful snort of air. “ _He,_ Feli,” he amended, though, maybe he shouldn’t have bothered. “Francis. Belongs to Toni and Gil, from what I’ve gathered.”

“Oh! Sorry,” Feliciano said, presumably to the cradled cat, “I didn’t realise… But you _are_ soft.” He returned to talking to his brother at that point. You know, like a normal person. “Why’s he in here and not with one of them? Or at home?”

“Because he’s like Toni’s kid or something, so he has to come to the office where he can be supervised at all times,” Lovino explained, “and since Toni and Gil are _so very busy right now_ , I was put on cat-duty.”

“Aw, that’s amazing!”

_No, it’s really not…_

“He’s just in the way,” he responded instead, however. “I’m trying to get these lists and notes done, but he’s surprisingly distracting.”

Nothing.

“Feli?”

Lovino turned around to see that Feliciano had transformed magically into Antonio and was giving Francis his undivided attention, stroking his luxuriously plush fur, lulling him like an infant… He supposed the only thing that Feliciano was doing that Antonio didn’t ( _couldn’t_ ) was talking to the thing and smothering it in love and sweet-nothings.

Ugh, gross!

And what was even worse—he didn’t doubt that the damned Spaniard would be exactly the same if he could speak.

Why did people favour a cat’s company over his own, Lovino pined, returning to his writing without allowing another word—however crude—to pass his lips. No, no, he wasn’t jealous of Francis. Who the heck would want to be covered in such long hairs all over like that, anyway? No, he wasn’t _jealous,_ he just, you know, wished people would pay attention to him like that more often…

His phone pinged.

_Lunch break at 1. Sound good?_

Yes. Yes, it fucking did.

He sent a hasty reply to Antonio— _yep!_ —and checked the time— _9:47am—_ and gave a sigh as he tried to work out how he would now make the next three-and-a-bit hours pass without him dying in the meantime. From boredom, frustration or something self-induced, he didn’t know.

Luckily enough for him, though, Feliciano remained quiet and occupied with the cat, and the cat remained equally as enthralled by the other’s presence, making himself less of a pestilence.

This meant that Lovino, to his own relief, had been able to get a fair amount of research and work done over the next two and a half hours. Lists, documents covered in sticky notes and highlighter marks, and a typed document on his laptop were the fruit of his labour and he, the weary farmer, leant back in his seat and took a breath.

That was enough for now. His hands hurt, as did his head, and—

There was a knock at the door.

Who…?

“Yeah? Come in,” Lovino said, and then he felt some kind of authority in those words— _come in_ , he beckoned, _for I am the boss and I have given you permission to enter my domain, peasant._ Ha!

The one who opened the door, however, made the feeling disappear and Lovino was met with the cheerful and apparently relieved face of Antonio, who was, he noted, thirty-four minutes early. Huh. Not that he was complaining, of course.

“Oh, hi!” his brother greeted. Francis seemed less than pleased he had lost attention in favour of his owner and subsequently leapt precariously off the Italian’s lap. “How are you?”

Antonio, being the idiot that he was, of course, only nodded and smiled, gave a thumbs up and all of that other ‘I’m good’ bullshit, before Feliciano laughed. That made the smile morph into a very, very confused look. _Aw, poor boy._

“Sorry,” Feliciano said, “it’s just—”

And then he decided to show off and he put his knowledge of sign language to the test. Lovino watched with some basic form of envy, or something of its kind, as his brother’s hands work effortlessly to communicate with Antonio, and then, as the musician’s face seemed to light up at the display as he replied.

“That’s good to hear,” Feliciano commented, though, Lovino was kept in the dark—and was that really _appropriate_ , Feli? It wasn’t like anything was _said,_ so how can it be good to _hear_ — Lovino needed to learn to tell his bitchy little mind to shut up and leave his brother alone for once in a while… “Has Lovino had a go with you yet?”

Oh no.

Both of them were looking at him—even the fucking cat seemed curious—and Lovino felt a strange heat rise in his face as he felt pressures against him from all directions, all so suddenly. _Nevermind_ , he told his brain, _berate him all you fucking want._

“No, I—” He stopped, then continued: “I haven’t really had the chance, yet…”

Lovino didn’t really want to look at Antonio—look at the disappointment that was in his face because he’d lied quite blatantly—and he grew to feel uncomfortable.

“Give it a try, then,” Feliciano’s voice told him from somewhere to his left. He went to reply—he even looked at the kid—but then he was told: “Hey, I’m not the one asking,” and a hand gestured towards the door.

_Fuck._

Antonio was giving him a look—not one of disappointment—was that—no— _really?_ —but one that seemed to be filled with encouragement and the hope that Lovino would accept and give it a try, because he wanted to see him try, not back down and give in. Give up. God, what was that man doing to him?

_Fuck fuck fuck!_

With anxiety threatening the stability of his hands— _what had Feliciano taught me, again?_ —Lovino bit his lip as he tried to concentrate, and he found himself, despite the worries and concerns and fears of screwing up immensely, signing out the simplest message that came to him in that tense, painful moment:

_‘My name is Lovino. It’s nice to meet you.’_

A smile, fulfilled and happy and proud (no one was _ever_ proud of him like that…) came back to him and Lovino recognised the message that came back to him from Antonio, slow to accommodate the learner but still clear:

_‘Hello Lovino. It’s nice to meet you, too.’_

It felt as though he had fallen from a cliff, but rather than plunging into cold, icy waters that stole his breath and froze his very core, Lovino had landed on a massive trampoline and bounced back into a meadow of colourful flowers and sunlight and— _warmth._ He couldn’t believe he was doing this—that his body was _betraying_ him like this—but the faintest of smiles crept onto his own face for the world to see.

And then Feliciano squealed again, and the smile vanished as quickly as it had manifested.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he frowned at his brother.

Feliciano giggled to himself, flicking a stray hair from his face that had fallen. “D-Don’t worry!” he insisted. “Just me, thinking to myself!”

Ha, _plotting_ more like, if living with Feliciano his entire life had taught Lovino anything. That kid needed to get a hobby—and one that preferably left his brother _out of it._ The last thing he wanted was to be the centre of his next ‘project’, the focus of attention.

“Careful,” Lovino warned flatly; “think too hard and you might burn out your brain.”

“Ouch…”

The best thing he could do was ignore his brother, his pout, and the way he looked at Lovino and demanded affection and love, and pray that he would go away. It would seem that having Feliciano around had its pros and cons after all…

Lovino turned back to Antonio—silent, mysterious Antonio. “Time to go?”

The musician gave him a nod and a sympathetic ( _why?_ ) smile. _Let’s get a move on and escape,_ was what that look said to the older Italian, _because you don’t want to be here, and I don’t need telling twice._ Or maybe it was just wishful thinking that made him read it that way. Who knew?

No one could be that perfect, he supposed. Antonio couldn’t surely understand his plight, let alone feel sorry for the nightmare Lovino had to live with, also known as Feliciano Vargas. Yes, wishful thinking, he decided.

Antonio was good, but he was _not_ perfect, he told himself.

“Have fun on your date!”

Lovino was going to _murder_ that boy when he got home that evening. He couldn’t even begin to fathom the bloodied desire rising in his system—and then it ebbed away just as quickly as ocean waves, putting out the fire, when he noticed that a certain (damned) Spaniard had become seemingly embarrassed by the very idea.

Embarrassed? Flustered? Timid? Lovino wasn’t entirely sure which one it could have been, but by God, the way that Antonio tried to play it off and (presumably) assured Feliciano that their trip to the coffee shop would be nothing of the sort—it was just so unexpected. He had seemed so confident and sure of himself before, yet now, he had been reduced to a pink-dusted ball of giddiness.

Or maybe he was just reading it wrong, a different part of Lovino whispered harshly. He’s embarrassed—not of the idea of a date, but because it’s you. Oh, well, that was a sudden turn. Thanks, brain, Lovino commended nonchalantly (for he was far too accustomed to these sorts of thoughts these days), and he decided to save Antonio’s skin either way.

“Go on then,” he urged Antonio, flicking his hands and ignoring his dear sibling. “You haven’t got all afternoon, you know!”

Antonio wasted little time in leading the way.

_He is definitely a dork..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY NEW YEAR!
> 
> Sorry this took so long, but in spite of the delay, I hope your 2019 goes amazingly well wherever you are, and wherever life may lead you next! <3
> 
> Until next time!
> 
> ~ Helia


	11. Coffee With Sugar, Please!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for the journalist and the musician to get to know each other a little better over a hot drink.

It was just as tough as Lovino had expected it to be, sitting in the café with Antonio, trying to have a proper conversation with him. In the end, he had walked back to his office and picked up his laptop after reaching the carpark, because it turned out the little sign language he knew really wasn’t enough to constitute a meaningful exchange with Antonio, and like heck was he going to endure such games as those from the _last_ time he’d been in a café with this idiot.

Antonio had a hot chocolate and Lovino had a cappuccino (two shots, one sugar), and that had apparently led to the beginning of their first, independent, Gilbert-free interaction.

What a milestone…

The laptop sat in the middle of the table, between the pair and to the side so that Lovino could easily read whatever Antonio typed out for him, including and certainly not limited to:

_‘So, I get the impression you’re more of a savoury than a sweet person, huh?’_

Lovino had, primarily, declared that he could be a sweet person if he tried (though this attempt at humour has missed its target—namely Antonio—by a mile at least) but eventually concurred that, yes, he preferred starting dishes to a dessert. He had thus subsequently learnt that Antonio was the opposite, though, he had guessed that by now already. The power of observation, he claimed.

_‘What’s your favourite food then?’_

“Way to put me on the spot,” the Italian—you know, _a foodie by nature_ —remarked, having to think for a few moments on the topic as he aimlessly stirred his cooling drink. “Anything that distinctly consists of pasta is probably the most basic staple,” he mused. “With a tomato sauce, of course.”

_‘Of course,’_ Antonio typed back with a bemused smile and matching glint in his eyes. _‘Question for me?’_

“Ha, sure,” Lovino complied. He had to use this opportunity to get to know Antonio as well, he supposed—he might not get many chances outside of work. “When did you first get into music? Or, _how_?”

The Spaniard nodded, presumably ‘approving’ the question as if he had some choice (he was going to fucking answer it, dammit!) and he instantly got to typing out on the provided laptop.

It was still something so interesting and mesmerising, watching his fingers whizz across the click-clacking keyboard. His fingers were less careful than they were with the instruments—with the ivory piano keys, the platinum guitar strings—and Lovino could see their slip-ups reflected in the occasional twitch of a brow that tried to frown at the errors yet not frown and just accept that mistakes were perfectly human and—

God damn it all to Hell, this was too far, too soon, Lovino scolded himself, tearing his eyes away to the minimalist art in the café around them. He couldn’t explain it. It wasn’t an obsession—he was _not_ obsessed— _Heaven forbid!_ —but it wasn’t just curiosity, was it?

Something about Antonio just made Lovino feel so— So—!

A laptop was turned around to face him, and Lovino, trying to find his feet, managed to drag his eyes to Antonio’s words so he could actually find out his answer to— Whatever it was he’d asked.

‘ _My father used to play guitar, and he taught me and my brother when we were young. From there, I guess I just found a passion and tried to take it as far as I could. You already know that music helped after the whole cancer business, but I learnt piano during high school from a close friend, who also taught me violin (or tried to). I taught myself bass, and then, when I was introduced to newer technology in my final year, I got into electronic music production, too._ ’

The whole cancer business… Lovino could tell Antonio didn’t want to dwell much on the topic, but the way he’d phrased it—there were two ways to read it, and he wasn’t sure which one was more correct.

Still, the answer had just about lived up to his standards and expectations. Like, of _course_ his dad had played guitar—he was probably one of those super warm, gentle, compassionate souls like Antonio was, it was no surprise that the guy had grown up into a man of a similar mould. Eesh. Why did Lovino have to be so much like his father, too? Why did Feliciano get all of their mother’s good characteristics?

“Who was this close friend, then?” he asked eventually, realising that he’d allowed a terribly awkward silence to fall upon the small table. Antonio didn’t seem to bothered by it… “Do you still talk to them?”

Okay, _now_ Antonio seemed a little more bothered. His fingers moved much slower now as he deleted the previous paragraph and slowly, carefully typed out his next response. Lovino wondered if this was something else from the past he should try to avoid talking about when work wasn’t involved. He didn’t want to accidentally provoke anything (or anyone, for that matter) after all.

And then, just like that, a very short message was warily pushed back towards him across the table:

‘ _Personal question first: what’s your stance on the LGBTQ+ community?_ ’

Why…? It was almost laughable, the I’m-trying-not-to-appear-worried-but-I’m-totally-shitting-myself look that had plastered itself in the shadows of Antonio’s face. Bless him, thinking that Lovino was a bastard like that. Bless him and damn him all at once.

Lovino had stepped out of the closet (to his family, at least) two years ago and like fuck was he going to be forced back inside.

“Love them to bits,” he said. What was wrong with a little fun, hey? He couldn’t divulge all of his own secrets so readily—not whilst he was sober, at least. “Why?”

Antonio seemed to be struck by a tidal wave of relief and he immediately returned to his typing to get back on track. This was becoming more amusing that Lovino had expected. Did Antonio seriously think that the other brunette saw him as being perfectly straight? Ha! No! He— He could see the way he walked, the way he would greet Gilbert with the hugs, and the peck on the cheek, and the way he seemed to pretend that nappy-wearing Francis was a child that he wished he had—

It didn’t take a genius to work out that Antonio was not heterosexual.

What it took a genius to work out, however, was whether or not he was single, in a relationship with Mother Gilbert, or in a relationship with the fucking cat.

And the Lord knew that Lovino, in all his confused emotions and feelings and desires, prayed hard that he was not seeing Gilbert because there were many, _many_ images that would otherwise refuse to leave his mind as he walked through the halls at work.

He shuddered just thinking about it.

‘ _Roderich was my boyfriend at the time. He helped me a lot after I integrated back into school, and he kinda supported me when I had my rough patches. He saw me through._ ’

Yep, Lovino thought to himself—congratulated himself—that man is definitely not straight.

Somewhere deep inside, however, a devilish voice wondered if maybe—just maybe—that meant he would stand a chance—but he violently bashed it away with a bludgeon and tried to hide a sudden fear he felt of his own mind.

He didn’t like Antonio like that, he would swear it with God as his witness! He just liked his smile, he just found his story so vital and important—that was different! He wasn’t— He wasn’t—!

“S-So,” he spoke, trying to fight away his other thoughts with speech, “how long were you guys together? Only…” Lovino paused briefly, thinking. “You said he ‘was’ your boyfriend…”

‘ _Two years_ ,’ Antonio’s typed reply came, simple and fast. ‘ _I broke it off because I felt like I was holding him back, and I think for both of us, it was better in the long run. I haven’t spoken to him in about six years._ ’

Wow. “Do you know what he’s up to? If you don’t want to talk about it, I don’t mind, I just—”

He was silenced by a raised hand and a look that said Antonio honestly didn’t mind—that the conversation was a good one, helpful, and it was good for both of them to learn about each other like this anyway.

Wow, indeed.

‘ _Last I heard, he’s playing violin back home in Vienna. Top of the league sort of thing._ ’

Impressive. Was Antonio drawn to other creative people, he found his mind stumbling upon, before dragging it back harshly to the present. It wasn’t the time for such things—he had a whole evening if he wanted to speculate like an ass!

Besides, even if he was, Lovino not exactly a creative person. Not paint-Narnia-on-my-walls creative, that was for sure.

“And what about now?” he pressed on.

Antonio’s face looked blank. He didn’t understand. Lovino went somewhat more red.

“Are you with anyone, idiot,” he reiterated, resting his head in his palm as he put his elbow on the table for support. Was it him, or was it getting hotter in there? Was the café shrinking?

‘ _I’m with you, aren’t I?_ ’

Lovino went from a dusted red to crimson very, very quickly. “Bastardo, I didn’t mean literally!” but Antonio had found it all too funny and was laughing (Lovino was still trying to get used to the silence of it). “I meant are you in a _relationship_ , you fucking moron…”

The message went and a new one took its place (though the humour never left): ‘ _No, Lovi. Just me, my music, and friends._ ’

At the same time, his mind and heart cried out ‘ _thank fuck_ ’ but for two different reasons, he was sure. _Thank fuck he’s single. Thank fuck—he’s married to the music and not the cat._ Today was going to be a long day, and the afternoon was only about half gone. What joy! He bet Feliciano was having the time of his life in the bakery, by now, lucky so-and-so…

‘ _What about you?_ ’

It took a moment for his tired brain to realise that Antonio was actually asking him a question, but when he was indeed hit by that blunt impact, he was almost startled.

“Ha, just as lonely as you are, no?” he found himself replying, as if that didn’t just make him sound like a complete and utter asshole—

‘ _Then we can be lonely together!_ ’ Antonio said (teased? joked?).

Oh, God no! That was the cheesy shit that people said in those crap rom-coms, wasn’t it? The angsty people who couldn’t, in the real world, actually be lonely because they looked so fucking perfect and had perfect skin and eyes and teeth—as well as amazing personalities—and Lovino was one-hundred percent sure that he was not clumped as part of that collective. Because of the looks _and_ the angst.

His personality was on point, however.

“Whatever floats your boat,” he replied, rolling his eyes and dismissing the suggestion. He ignored the cheerful applause-of-one that followed. “Are you always like this?”

‘ _Like what?_ ’

“A big kid.”

‘ _I am many things, Lovi,’_ Antonio provided, ‘ _but a child is not one of them._ ’

Ha, okay. “So what are you, then, if not a bambino?”

He watched with amusement as Antonio took a moment to think, lip between his teeth, before his magic fingers got back to work on the laptop. It was undeniable that he was still a child on the inside—a little immature for his age. It was all in the cat-nappies.

‘ _Artist Nonconformist Teacher Optimist Nuisance (according to Gil) Innovative Overwhelming_

_How’s that for a breakdown? :3_ ’

Lovino had to hold back a laugh—and he wasn’t sure whether it was one with or at Antonio! He had definitely seen Optimist, Artist and Nuisance Antonio, but he was curious, to say the least, about these remaining personalities that existed. What did he mean by ‘overwhelming’? His past was, for sure, but was there more to it? And what about the ‘nonconformist’, or the ‘teacher’ he claimed to be? What was all that about?

He wanted to ask—to press further—but perhaps, he decided, that would best be saved for the future. There was a whole year to discover these things naturally, and that was the Feliciano part of him (he was convinced it existed somewhere deep, deep within him; vice versa as well) was reminding him: let nature take its course; let the realities reveal themselves.

Fuck, reality needed to hurry up!

The laptop was stolen away from him before he could find the words he wanted to say, and Lovino stifled a huff in order to instead listen to the rhythmic typing once again, allowing himself to simmer in the otherwise peaceful café. Would this be it for the entire coming year? Was this all that they would do, ask questions and answer them? Lovino’s eyes flickered back reluctantly to the brunette on the other side of the table, and in that moment, he didn’t think he could entertain such a thought ever again.

He didn’t want that to be the only thing they did—he wanted a friend in Antonio despite all of his attitude and instance that he cared for no one—but he supposed he could only hope, at this point. Sure, Antonio was single, but what part of that statement meant that Lovino—little, bitchy, horrible Lovino—had a chance?

‘ _What about you? What are you, because you’re clearly something more than just a journalist._ ’

It took a moment for Lovino to find himself and his tongue, but after an awkward pause, he found his feet as well. “What makes you so interested?”

‘ _I think you’re an interesting guy._ ’

Is that why you picked me, was what he wanted to ask him—demand of him. But that would have been rude, and Feliciano would murder him in his sleep if he dared.

‘ _And I said I wanted to get to know you better—so let me,_ ’ he added with a smile.

Oh, Lord give him strength— “Fine,” Lovino caved (not there was ever much genuine resistance). “I’m an Italian pain in the ass, born in Rome and moved to this country by parents who thought my brother and I would do better over here,” he explained with a sigh, leaning back in his seat. “Never really excelled at anything in school, until I began writing more… Freely. Not essays, but coursework. My English got a lot better, as did my tolerance of school. _Barely_.”

‘ _Do you only write journalistically, or have you tried other things as well?’_

“Well, I… Journalism has been my focus since I was eighteen, but—yeah—I gave other, uh… Other writing styles a go, too,” the Italian confessed. Okay, so maybe he could be a _little_ creative when he wanted to be. “Poetry, mostly.”

Antonio was slow as he moved to type a response. Maybe it was because he just couldn’t believe that someone like Lovino—rude, blunt, reserved—was capable of writing anything that could be considered ‘art’ (not that the ‘artist’ did, himself). But there was something more in those damned green eyes. And it bothered Lovino that he wasn’t sure what it was—that Antonio couldn’t just tell him.

And then, as if that wasn’t frustrating enough, Antonio’s phone buzzed and lit up. A text message had come in.

He observed as Antonio read over the message and as that unknown glint left his eyes, and the Spaniard gave him a look he _could_ read: one of apology.

“Beilschmidt?” he questioned.

Antonio nodded.

“Have you been summoned back already?”

Another less-than-pleased nod.

“Well,” Lovino said, rising from his seat, “let’s not keep the _capo_ waiting. I’ll walk back with you.”

He insisted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there you have it: Toni is officially gay and European - and he's not the only one!
> 
> Man, I love this story so much purely for the fact that it makes the real world feel less crap lmaoo. Don't mind me, folks, I just finally managed to get my uni coursework done and I don't think I have ever hated writing so much :'v
> 
> Hope you're all okay all the while! Should be updating a little mroe frequently now, she says, eyeing her nasty-af semester two timetable--
> 
> Until next time!~


	12. Enter Stage Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Archipelago finally gets back to the gang about Antonio's sample tracks, and some interesting characters arrive at the doors to say hello. Lovino isn't sure how much more madness he can take. (It's a lot, trust me). The Big Project begins.

Saturday had come and gone quickly, bringing with it the deadline that had stopped Lovino from seeing Antonio as frequently as, somewhere deep down, it seemed he wanted. It appeared that the musician had been working tirelessly—with encouragement of sorts, courtesy of Gilbert—to get his sample record completed in time. Lovino hadn’t listened to all eight songs but he didn’t doubt their lustre; Antonio did not seem like the kind of person to settle for less than what he considered perfect.

The Italian was actually sat with Antonio (and Francis—who could fucking forget) in the musician’s mish-mash, technicolour, eyeball-melting room, waiting for Gilbert to reappear from his office on the other side of the building with news. It was now Wednesday, and Archipelago’s response to the record was due that very afternoon.

“Stop it,” Lovino said when his eyes fell yet again upon a concerned, distant, anxious look. It really didn’t suit Antonio. “You’ve nothing to be nervous about. I’m sure they loved it, _idiota_.”

Francis meowed and Antonio gave a shrug, half-hearted and probably not very convinced. There was not much Lovino knew to say in these kinds of circumstances—his brother had always had confidence in his own work, or had otherwise scrapped his art without batting an eyelid, and Lovino had thus only ever had to try and encourage himself.

And he had a feeling that Antonio would react differently to Lovino’s personal methods of motivation.

Not everyone appreciated being yelled and sworn at, after all.

“Were you happy with all of the songs?” he asked instead, deciding to make conversation; a reluctant nod meant that this was a much safer route to take. “Do you think that you could’ve done much better with them?” An unsure look. “But they were still worth sending off to this label, sì?”

Antonio was distracted when Francis (no longer donning his nappies, thank the Lord, it was a miracle) got up, stretched on his lap and adjusted his position to snuggle up close to his owner (which Lovino did not find as endearing as he would if it were any other cat and any other owner) and didn’t reply.

“Hey,” the Italian said, “you’re glad you did this, right? That you sent the songs?”

The Spaniard nodded as he petted the fur-ball on his lap, and Lovino supposed that that was the best he was going to get.

He had noticed over the past few days a slight change in the other brunette’s behaviour. It was ever since that morning in the studio, when Antonio was playing the piano and Lovino was at his side, and the frightful news came through an albino speaker that Archipelago had cut the deadline. Antonio seemed… Further away than normal. There but not there.

Lovino figured it was because Gilbert barely gave the man a break. Maybe it was for his own good—a way to ensure the work was done and Antonio had the best chance of further success—but it was also hard to witness. No one should have to work days as long as his: in work at five in the morning, home at midnight.

It was amazing his eyes were still green and not a sore, swelling red.

Yet.

And then the door flung open with the most energy that anyone in the room could possibly possess, and Gilbert emerged from the hallway, only slightly out of breath.

“I just had a reply to the email.”

Both brunettes sat on the edge of their seats and Francis darted off from Antonio’s lap before he was accidentally thrown from him instead. “Well?” Lovino spoke for all of them. “What did they say?”

Gilbert took a moment, adopting an infuriatingly neutral face (motherfucker!) and he looked between the musician and the journalist, and Lovino, in all his Italian vigour, just wanted to stand up, grab him, shake him about and demand a straightforward answer to his straightforward question.

Ha! Sometimes he wondered if he had unknown Neapolitan Mafia-blood in him…

“They’ve listened to the tracks,” the German began slowly, “many times over, in fact. You know why?”

Antonio signed something furiously (with fury?) at him.

“Calm the heck down, Toni, they fucking loved it, okay? Jeez, you need to get more coffee in your diet…”

With a silent sigh of gratefulness that Lovino could perfectly understand, the Spaniard flopped backwards onto the couch, hands of his forehead as he wiped away beads of stress from his skin, breathing fast (and no doubt his heart beating just as quickly) as he presumably tried to relax and surf over the wave of relief that had washed over him. Fucking Gilbert and his fucking teasing.

“What else, then?” Lovino pressed on. “What have they said they’ll do?”

“They’re coming for a visit to meet the gang.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

The way that Antonio then flopped with a pained look sideways, so that he now lay in a contorted position on the sofa, suggested that a groan was meant to accompany the action. Was it too soon, perhaps?

“What’s the matter with you, drama queen?” Gilbert asked his prone friend, who in turn, replied with a new charade. “Seriously?” A nod and thumbs-up. “Go home early today, then. You don’t need to stay up late, so treat yourself tonight and chill, yeah?”

“Is he complaining about a lack of sleep by chance?”

“Yup.”

Lovino looked to Antonio, not that the Spaniard seemed to be paying attention at this point. “He’s right, you know. You look like shit.”

Antonio scoffed and Lovino understood the hands’ “Thank you,” and the sarcasm that layered the single action.

“You deserve a break,” the Italian continued, rolling his eyes to an oblivious interlocutor. “This is something big—a step in the right direction—but we don’t need you falling back down the staircase tomorrow because you’ve only had three hours of sleep.”

“You think so?” the other brunette signed.

“ _Yes_ ,” Lovino insisted, “so get your ass home to bed before I knock you out myself.”

And from underneath limp arms and the shadow of curls, Lovino could have sworn he saw a smile creep onto Antonio’s face.

* * *

So, it was now Thursday. Everyone had gone home early the day before, in the end, on the orders of Gilbert as an abnormally sober way of ‘celebrating’ the true beginning of the Big Project, as it had been christened. It was a relief for Lovino, who got to go home early for the first time in his entire working life, and was able to cook a decent, carefully planned dinner for him and his brother.

Quality family time: a rarity, completed with further lessons of ASL, as well as a catch-up on Feliciano’s list of ‘interests’.

That meant ‘people I’m stalking on Instagram’, of course.

But now the day had arrived for Archipelago’s main artist to meet Antonio, Gilbert and Lovino, and all three of them were nervous in one way or another.

Antonio was fidgety. He couldn’t seem to sit still in the foyer, where they were all awaiting the arrival of their guests, left leg bouncing up and down erratically as he stared blankly at the ground, lost in thought and anxiety, Lovino didn’t doubt. Musical fingers rapped against his stationary limb on the other side, but in all, he seemed to be lacking control over himself.

Gilbert was simply pacing, cat in his arms, mumbling things to himself like a madman. This wasn’t exactly what Lovino would consider unusual behaviour—Gilbert could be nervous more often than people appreciated—but the vice-like grip he appeared to have on Francis was new. The cat had more or less recovered from its surgery, after all, and Lovino was actually a bit concerned that it would have to go back in for another operation. A bit.

Lovino, on the other hand, was more worried for Antonio than anyone else. Sure, Gilbert’s pacing was distracting (and annoying) but it was nothing compared to the nerves that seemed to be radiating off the Spaniard. He wouldn’t have confessed it, no, but yes—Lovino was worried for Antonio, and hoped that today would go nice and smoothly for his sake rather than anyone else’s.

Fuck, what was he _thinking_? He needed this job, fuck anyone else, he needed this to go smoothly so that he could earn a living!... Amongst… Other things…

“They’re here,” Gilbert announced through the madness, his phone somehow in his hand as he juggled the cat as well. “They’re in the car park, walking over now.”

“Thank fuck…”

“Is everyone ready? Everyone feel good?” He ignored the tired shaking of Antonio’s head. “Best, natural, lively smiles when they come in, okay? This is the first time they’re meeting us in person—let’s not make it the last time, team!”

A few seconds of sweltering, oozing silence passed, the air became frail around everyone as all movement seemed to stop altogether, and then, _light._ Natural light illuminated the deprived atrium and from the outside world walked two men, into the amber-tinted hues of Their own world. Could Lovino call it that? He supposed he could, now: the amber-tinted hues of Legacy Records.

_Damn_ , that felt good…

“Sorry to keep you guys waiting, we got lost for a moment back on Thirty-Sixth,” a distinctly American voice said, apologetic but still incredibly happy in spite of it. Lovino noted his bright eyes—blue, rather than green. “It’s great to finally be here, though!”

“No worries,” Gilbert replied. Maybe he was talking to the other ‘Manager’, as they liked to be called. “It’s a tricky road back there—really shit signposting. How are you all, anyway?”

The American’s smile grew exponentially. “We’re all good! A little tired from the long journey, but we don’t let that kill our spirit—” He looped a friendly arm around a man Lovino had only just noticed, notably shorter, but part blonde American and part green-eyed Spaniard donning a pair of shades with… Only one… Lens…? “—isn’t that right, Artie?”

 “Ah, the Music Man!” Gilbert remarked. “Good to meet you at last.”

Hmm— Wait, what? The Music Man? As in, the musician, like Antonio? This—This short, blonde, emerald-eyed, clearly very English, angry-looking guy was the _musician_? As said man tried to fend off the American, Lovino began to think of what possible types of music he created but didn’t seem to get too far from his basis of ‘Rock’ and ‘Punk’. How was this going to work? Antonio and Arthur—would they even be compatible in that way?

He cast a glance to Antonio, who appeared to be conducting his own visual assessment of the Brit he had been presented with. Unfortunately, Lovino was unable to recognise any obvious tell-tale signs about what he was thinking, but it couldn’t have been far from what Lovino had come up with, right?

_Right?_

“Arthur, this is Antonio,” Gilbert continued, none the wiser. “Team, this is Arthur. You might recognise his music produced under the name ‘Xero’. Very talented, and we’re lucky to have him on board with us.”

“Pleasure to be here,” the Brit tagged on, though, he could have sounded a little more enthusiastic about it. Geez…

But then, Antonio rose from his seat to properly greet the other musician with a somewhat more formal handshake, a polite yet still anxious smile on his face. Lovino could tell he was likely still trying to comprehend that this was happening—that his project was becoming a realisation—but what resolve the Spaniard had seemed to completely shatter when Arthur piped up once more and asked:

“So, what’s your deal, Antonio? Why are _you_ so keen to have this project done?”

Because the dumbass couldn’t fucking reply. _Great._

Gilbert seemed to stifle a groan. “Yeah, I, uh, probably should’ve said sooner,” he explained slowly, “but Antonio’s investment in this project—which you’ll know is about raising awareness for artists who empower themselves through music—comes from the fact that he…” He looked briefly to Antonio who nodded, giving permission. “He’s mute.”

“Holy shit, really?” Alfred said, but his outburst was subsequently ignored.

“Oh, I see.” Arthur did not seem phased in the slightest by this revelation. If anything, he appeared intrigued by the story to come. “Pardon me for prying, but… Has it been a lifetime thing, or…?”

“He—”

Antonio stopped Gilbert and signed him a question, slow and accompanied by a slightly concerned frown, but the sudden tension dispersed immediately when Arthur nodded and began to reply with his own hands a simple message (of which Lovino could understand, like, three words. He was getting there!... Slowly…). Regardless, anyway, this prompted a short, silent conversation between the two artists that presumably relayed Antonio’s horrifying cancer story, because the next thing Lovino knew, words were back in the air. Huzzah!

“I’m very sorry that happened to you,” Arthur told the Spaniard, who thanked him with a slight nod and a grateful smile. “If it’s any consolation, I think you’ve done incredibly well to get this far. Your music really is something special, you know.”

Lovino held back a laugh when Antonio made an overly exaggerated ‘oh, you~’ gesture with his hand as though he were the most camp person in existence, and then had to bear witness to yet more sign language—but— _thank fuck!_ —it may have only been two words but he was so glad he recognised them!

“Me?” Arthur said (for Antonio had asked him: ‘And you?’, evidently curious about the blonde’s story. “Well, I wouldn’t say it’s as severe as it could’ve been, but—”

He paused, hands reaching up for his unique glasses and pushing them up onto his head. The entire foyer was silent out of respect and shock, and Lovino felt his breath hitch for a moment when he saw that Arthur’s left eye was not green, like his right one, but clouded over and marked out by a scar that curved around part of his eye socket. What on earth had happened? And what the fuck did God have against musicians, huh?

“—I was in a road collision just over seven years ago,” the Brit continued without care. “It left me half-blind and utterly deaf. I have to wear hearing aids.”

Another signed message was quickly passed between the music-makers.

“It’s fine, really. An eighteen-wheeler just came raging onto the road from nowhere and collided with the back end of our school coach,” he explained, sliding his glasses back down again for security. “No one died, but, as you can guess… There were a lot of unhappy parents…”

“Well, you’ve done just as well to get by,” Gilbert remarked.

“Thanks,” Arthur nodded. “But I’m not the only one. That’s why we’re here, after all: to bring strength to people like us, no?”

Antonio smiled at him, avidly agreeing, and that was that. Gilbert suggested that the five of them went out to the local café for a hot drink (and the cat—they couldn’t forget the cat) and to have a general chat before getting down to business. And Lovino… He just went along with it, not sure what to make of it or anyone at this point, and wondering when he would finally get to do his job.

Ha, that’s a first…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess whooooo~
> 
> Yeah, you can't get rid of me that easily! Admin will be doing more work on this over the summer and possibly another new work, too (stay tuned).
> 
> I'm going to be in Italy for a month, starting in just over a week's time, so hopefully I'll find more inspo out there and update a little more regularly that every six months, eh? Hehe... Oops?
> 
> ~ Helia


	13. Tense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With everyone together, it's time they all heard each other's stories, bond over coffee and work out what to call the new music duo.  
> Lovino, in the meantime, just wants this over as quickly as possible.

“A _band_ name?”

“Yeah, well, you guys need to think of a name to mark your collaboration,” Gilbert shrugged, leaning back in his seat in a very familiar café to Lovino, Francis having a nap on the seat next to him. “Your solo artist names are great and all, but it’ll mean more if you have a double-act name, too.”

“That’s actually a good point,” Alfred concurred. “Plus, publicity will be easier and more powerful as a whole that way. You’ll be recognisable as the conveyors of this project _together_.”

“No shit, Al,” Arthur said, rolling his eyes (Lovino had decided that Arthur was definitely a keeper at this point). “But like what?”

Antonio then put in his two pence and added to the table, a somewhat concerned look on his face as he seemed to side with Arthur. After all, they had only just met in person. They no doubt knew each other’s music, but beyond that, there was nothing otherwise connecting them.

“I dunno, it’s just a thought. It’ll come to you guys eventually!”

“Preferably sooner rather than later.” The Brit huffed and had a sip of his tea—as stereotypical as it was. “Archipelago have already begun to look for venues to host us should the debut be any good. Which it will be, obviously.”

“Already?”

Alfred gave a brisk nod to the Italian. “Yep! When we got the tracks and had a listen, we thought we had something pretty special at our fingertips,” he explained easily. “There’s little doubt in the office that this can work—and well.”

So much confidence was being placed in these two strangers, Lovino thought to himself as the conversation rolled on without him. It had barely been half an hour since they had formally met and already, they were a global sensation? He was allowed to be sceptical—of course he was—but he just hoped that over-confidence and arrogance would not get in the way of what was at the heart of this project. He hoped, in truth, that it would not fall to the ground.

He felt a tap on his shoulder. “H-Hm?” Lovino looked to Antonio with a confused look, and it took a few seconds for him to realise that he was being asked if he was okay in sign language. “Yeah… Why?”

“’Cause you totally zoned out,” the American replied, a hint of amusement in his face. “Artie asked if—”

“ _It’s Arthur, you nitwit._ ”

“—you had any thoughts or plans, given your position.”

Ah. Ah shit.

“Well,” Lovino said, straightening himself up in his chair, quickly clearing his throat; “I guess the first thing I need to do is have the preliminary interviews with both Arthur and Antonio. This afternoon. And since this entire project is being filmed and documented, this will probably happen a few times over the next couple of months.” He looked to Alfred. “Happy?”

“Sounds good to me,” he responded.

“I’ll need Gilbert to sit in with me for the sake of interpretation, mind you,” the Italian pressed on, stirring about the sugar that had stuck to the bottom of his cappuccino-filled mug. “You’re welcome to come, too, if you want. So long as it’s quiet.”

“Uhuh…”

“That’s a no,” Arthur translated, however. “He doesn’t need to sit in. He has an important call to make this afternoon, and he doesn’t need to be distracted or distract _ing_. Yes, Alfred?”

“Sure thing, Arthur,” Alfred mumbled, a small pout on his face. Yes, Lovino was definitely growing fond of the bushy-browed Brit and his demeanour.

Gilbert cleared his throat over the slight awkwardness that had fallen upon the table. “Glad that’s settled… So, I guess this is a good time for everyone to get to know each other a bit better—outside of work, yeah?”

Fair play to him, Lovino thought; he was doing good with trying to manage the situation and actually be useful, today. Huh. What gives? Manners in front of guests, he supposed. Antonio in the meantime, pointed to the German, inviting him to start with that god-damned big smile of his.

“Oh, okay, uh…” _Ha, lost for words for once, Gilbert?_ “So, I was born in Berlin just over twenty-eight years ago and, as you can probably guess, I’m a little different to the rest of my family. But still, they were loving... I have a younger brother by three years, and the four of us moved to the States when I was ten because my father had picked up a job,” he explained carefully, as though picturing the moment he landed in a such a foreign culture.

“My brother and I went to school—obviously—and that was when I got involved in business and music. I liked helping others, I liked to stand up for others, and I guess I just got through college and found myself… Here,” he shrugged. “Joined Legacy about five years ago through a placement and they haven’t been able to get rid of me since. And that was how I met Toni and—” Gilbert stopped for a brief moment, and then released his breath. “Yeah. That’s me… Alfred?”

Uh, what had that blip been about? Gilbert? _Hello?_

“Sure! So, my family is basically made up of scientists and teachers, but I figured I would break the mould,” he remarked, as if it was such an easy thing to do, defy his parents. _Tch_. “I have a brother who is… Somewhere. Marriage difficulties, you understand… But, anyway, I actually met Arthur at college, whilst studying Management. Got talking after I heard him playing on the street. When I finished my degree, I was approached by Archipelago after a project I did relating to the industry, and I ended up dragging Arthur with me through their doors.”

“Trust me, it wasn’t as forceful as he makes it sound,” the Brit assured everyone. “It just took some persuading.”

“And look where we all are now, eh? Definitely a good idea,” Alfred beamed.

“Yeah.” Arthur shook his head to himself in a mix of despair and boredom and supposed that he was next; “Born in the West Country, had the bus accident, moved to Texas with parents and siblings, learned guitar from some other kid, met Alfred on the streets like the trash he is and ended up here,” he reeled off without seemingly stopping to breathe. “Stuff in between is limited to arguing with family, learning to cook and be independent, and moving out to live alone when I turned eighteen.”

No one really had any words. Lovino wondered if Arthur would be so reserved during their talks throughout the project or if he was like himself—just wanting to get by, not worried about the how but the when. He would open up with time. Hopefully. There was more to him to learn about, yet, and he was sure it would come to fruition through the next few months.

“Toni?”

Toni nodded towards Lovino.

“It’s fine, I’m the designated interpreter,” Gilbert replied; “Go on.”

So, the Spaniard did, through a German voice:

“I was born in Barcelona, into a happy and modest family. I lived with my parents and older brother, all of whom stayed close at my side when the cancer came and went. I struggled for a few years: depression, isolation… You can imagine,” they both said rather glumly. “But music got me through. It gave me a voice, and with it, I learned how to make others smile and how to remain in control of myself and my life.”

“When did you come to America, then? Why, if Spain was home?” Alfred questioned curiously.

They answered without fault: “I came to America during that darker period, for a similar reason to Gilbert. My father’s business needed a representative at the U.S. office, and he passed the process,” they explained. “I didn’t want to leave Spain, really, but I made friends after getting back into school—” _And boyfriends,_ Lovino added. “—that helped pull me through and taught me to enjoy life rather than curse it.”

“Amen to that,” Arthur concurred, raising his cup in a mock toast. Antonio smiled at him, bemused. “There’s no greater escape for people like us, huh?” and the Spaniard shook his head in a mutual understanding. “Lovino?”

Oh, fuck, he had forgotten he wasn’t just a casual observer of this conversation; he was far too used to doing the interviewing.

“I, uh… I was born in Italy, if you couldn’t tell, and have two younger siblings. Romeo is still in Italy, working on the family vineyards and keeping up the legacy, but Feliciano, the youngest, lives with me here in the city. He’s a big part of why I’m sat here right now,” he said, unsure what he was even supposed to include and exclude. “Our parents thought it would be good for us to move here, so the two of us did. I just picked up a job in Journalism from the degree I did in Rome.”

“So, you’ve written about music for a while?” Alfred said.

“No, actually,” Lovino replied, arms folding in defence of his proud origins. “I’ve had a couple of trades. I started with cooking and culture; then, I dabbled in things like travel, politics and fashion—all of which I hated to write about, apart from fashion, really—before a switch to music was suggested by the editor of the magazine. And then, as you can see, I was plucked from such nightmare by that idiot,” he said, jabbing a finger at Gilbert, “and feeling better for it.”

“Ha, you’re welcome, Vargas,” Gilbert replied with that haughty-snorty laugh.

_Fuck you, Beilschmidt…_

But, it was out. He wasn’t sure what ppanyone had learnt from that spiel besides that fact that he had two brothers, only one of which seemed to care for the family business, but what had been said had been said. They could take from it what they pleased; there was more to Lovino than just what he could write on a piece of pape to be published for the world's eyes, dammit.

“Guess that just leaves the cat, huh?”

Silence fell.

Alfred blinked. “No?”

Gilbert and Antonio shared a quick look that the latter evaded as soon as he had seen it in favour of the table, and Gilbert only sighed. Oh. Oh? _What was this supposed to mean?_

“Francis is Francis,” he said. “He’s been with me and Toni for two years and for our own reasons. But he’s part of the family. He comes with us wherever. Antonio tagged on something on the end which Gilbert generously added on: “He’s a part of who we are—nothing more, nothing less.”

As if that couldn’t have been any more cryptic, eh? That was something else that Lovino would have to look out for, perhaps. After all, he had seen more of the mothering behaviour of both Antonio and Gilbert with regards to Francis and his curiosity was already there. But now it had gotten worse. Why so evasive, Toni? Dammit, too many things to learn, too many people to pry open…

Lovino took a sip of his cappuccino and sat back. He had a lot to do, now: get questions organised and finalised for the interview; make sure the camera was fully-charged; consider eating lunch (but what?); find out these little secrets that everyone was trying to hide but not— Ah, he might have to write a physical list at this rate. He was sure more would come up as time went on.

The silence fervently continued, that was certain at the least. Lovino could spy out of the corner of his eye that Antonio’s hand had reached the fur of the cat and was gently petting it, as if to only make sure Francis was still there, napping between him and Gilbert. Alfred’s fingers rapped on the table and Gilbert looked just as bored. Arthur sat simply quiet, arms folded as he stared at his cup. Fuck, the Italian thought, what was with this bunch—

And then Spanish hands shot up above the table once more and Antonio signed something slow, as though still having to think carefully, but there was something in his eyes and the way he looked at Arthur as he mimed out the words. The other three all looked at each other with a questioning look that Lovino wished he could fucking be in on, and Arthur lifted his glasses on top of his head.

“Did that just come to you?” he asked the Spaniard, who only nodded, but very enthusiastically so. “I quite like it, you know. Past tense or present continuous?”

Antonio gained a pensive look at this and bit his lip, his face scrunching up in that ~~cute~~ endearing way as he obviously toyed with whatever the heck different tenses had to do with whatever had been said. Because still, no one had told him. Dammit, he needed more lessons from Feliciano and _quick_.

“Past,” Alfred voted, at the same time Gilbert said: “Continuous.”

The Spaniard glanced between the pair before, after several moments of internal deliberation and debate, he pointed at Alfred: _what he said_.

“I think so, too,” Arthur agreed wistfully. “It’s rather poetic, in a way, don’t you think?”

Of course, no one said anything straight away so Lovino decided to throw a wild: “I don’t know since I have no clue what the fuck you’re on about,” into the ring, and then all eyes were on him.

From Antonio, he got an apologetic look, whilst Arthur appeared to be sheepish in respect, and as for the other two, well, they seemed to simply find it amusing that Lovino was not yet on their level of sign language understanding. _Fuckers._

“The name for the group,” Arthur supplied all the while—at last! “I think we may have just found it, thanks to Toni.”

“It’s pretty darn good, I’ll admit,” Alfred chipped in.

“Still think continuous is _better_ ,” Gilbert, in the meantime, muttered to himself quietly.

But Lovino could still only roll his eyes; “So what is it, then, huh? Amaze me.”

Arthur swirled his tea about his cup, a small, content smile on his face. “Fallen Empires,” he said with pride in his tone, nodding at Antonio who seemed just as happy to hear it said aloud. “Fallen Empires—but not gone, and ready to come back. Right?”

Antonio nodded, and it was at that moment that Lovino realised that there were more mad people in the world than just Gilbert and Antonio and the cat. But you know what? It was fine. Maybe he could write a book after this experience and enlighten the world about the hidden nature of creative types and just how crazy some musicians could be.

And in the meantime, he would simply go along with this nonsense…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filler chapter? Filler chapter.  
> Mostly :'v
> 
> So I've been in Italy for over a week now and it's way too hot, but that's what I get for not checking monthly temperatures! Apparently July is the worst month, so gg me! .Guess the important thing is that my Italian is improving. And in the meantime, my Spanish has gone to shit. The beauty of being a language student! TwT
> 
> Alsooo just to keep you all posted - I'm currently working on two new stories. They shouldn't be huuuge projects, but they should be.. 'fun' ones ;3  
> (#nospoilers)
> 
> Until next time, amici! ♡

**Author's Note:**

> You know, I don't think I can write Lovino well at all, but since a majority of this work is in his POV, we'll just have to roll with it!
> 
> Apologies in advances, todos, but I hope you enjoy this all the while! :3


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